The Patrician's Papers
by samvimes
Summary: Vetinari's secret writings, Margolotta loose in Ankh-Morpork, and Drumknott considering a career change.
1. Default Chapter

Good evenink vonce more, gentle readers...  
  
I wrote this as a sometime-sequel to Room Vith a View, though it is not necessary to have   
read that in order to understand this. Indeed, I almost want to separate the two; Room   
stands so well alone that attaching this bloated monster to it seems like a corruption.   
  
The first part of each chapter, meanwhile, is an excerpt from The Patrician's Papers,   
Vetinari's political treatise. They are self-important, and I suspect they might even be   
dull. However, good news for you; they can also be skipped without trouble (like the   
"Good Parts" edition of The Princess Bride).   
  
Special thanks to my beta-readers: Mary, Yap, Mercator, and Casira. Also an especial   
thank-you to Ryulabird, slang tutor, betareader, and perpetual thorn in my side ::grin::   
without whose persistence this would never have been completed. You are Sugoi, all of   
you.  
  
Just to clear up a few things, and prevent people from hurling books at me, I would like   
to point out:  
  
1. Vetinari is not dead, nor does he die, anywhere in this fanfic. The Editor's   
commentaries upon his death are solely for the purpose of continuity.  
  
2. If it makes you happier, it was Havelock's long-lost twin Lawrence who was buried, and   
Havelock Vetinari is elsewhere. Cling to that.  
  
3. This has almost no plot. Do not expect one. You've been warned.  
  
***  
  
THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION  
  
Never in the history of Ankh-Morpork has there been a ruler quite like Havelock Vetinari.   
If I had not with my own eyes witnessed his burial, I would not describe him as a cold,   
calculating, heartless, ruthless ruler. But, since I have, I can. He is dead. Really.   
We're sure this time.  
  
In his decades of service to the city, Vetinari never hesitated to eliminate any threat,   
destroy any rival to Ankh-Morpork's power, and arrest and imprison any street mime   
unlucky enough to draw his attention.   
  
His relationship with his city was precarious at best; he survived being arrested for   
treason and attempted murder, attacked by a dragon, and at least two meals, that we   
know of, cooked by C.M.O.T. Dibbler.   
  
He was a man of few vices, if any, and even fewer virtues. His great accomplishment was   
the transformation of Ankh-Morpork into the Disc's major political power. His   
encouragement of open guild activity, his calm acceptance of a multi-species society   
within the city, and his political negotiations both at home and abroad have set the   
standard Ankh-Morpork looks for in any potential Patrician.   
  
The job is open, by the way. Apply to the City Council, Rats Chamber, Patrician's   
Palace, or send vitae c/o Commander Samuel Vimes, AMCW, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork.  
  
After his death, the volume you are reading was discovered in notebook form in the   
Patrician's private effects. It has obviously been ready for publication for some time;   
indeed, the title of 'editor' is hardly more than a formality in this case. Some   
annotations have been made to explain apparent mysteries in the text, and some   
explanations have been added when necessary, but otherwise this is more or less an exact   
copy of the Patrician's manuscript version.  
  
Apparently, The Patrician's Papers is not merely a political treatise, but also a journal   
of sorts; the progression of the writing from that of a young trainee Assassin through to   
a seasoned statesman is quite clear. Whether this is intentional or whether the Papers   
were simply written in his spare time is less definite.   
  
Let me end, gentle readers, on a somewhat amusing note: If the Patrician had not written   
this, and were alive today, he would never allow such a work to be published in his city.  
  
-- Editor  
  
*** 


	2. The Watchman And The Boy

THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
An Historio-Political Treatise  
Disguised As   
A Romance  
  
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins  
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own  
Capricious monotone  
That is at least one definite "false note."  
-- TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER ONE: THE WATCHMAN AND THE BOY  
  
Editor's Note: Chapter One of The Patrician's Papers is the only chapter which bears a   
date; it claims to have been written on the twenty-ninth of May, in the same year as the   
revolution which put Mad Lord Snapcase into office. There are two theories about the   
first chapter, which is told in parable format; one claims that Vetinari is himself the   
Watchman, already wishing for order in a chaotic city, and that the Boy is merely a   
distant way of looking at himself. Meanwhile, the other holds that he is the Boy, taking   
full advantage of the riots to assassinate Lord Winder.  
  
Obviously the second theory is ridiculous. At the time of the revolution, Havelock   
Vetinari was not older than seventeen. There is no reason to doubt the date; the parable   
reads like a young man's slightly romanticised version of events. Therefore, we can only  
assume that Vetinari had poured his desire for stability in the city into the character  
of the Watchman.  
  
***  
  
There was once, in the City of Ankh-Morpork, a Boy who liked to climb. He wore the city   
like a glove, and if he did not want to be seen, the city swallowed him into its shadows   
as effortlessly as a snake swallows an egg. Though with far less digestion involved.  
  
This Boy climbed buildings, and spent his nights in the shadows, watching and learning   
from all that went on below. It was dangerous to be out, at night; the only men who took   
to the streets were the revolutionaries, or the Seamstresses. There were police on the   
street, because a curfew had been enacted, and those caught out in the curfew who could   
not bribe their way to freedom were often taken to the house of pain.  
  
The Boy did not like this. Neither did his guardian, a Genuan lady of some repute, who   
said to him that when the time was right, he and no other should be the hand of the   
city, and kill the mad ruler.   
  
But then one night into the city came a man from Pseudopolis, a Watchman with a single,   
sharp eye. With him he brought good sense and order for those that would listen (which   
were few) and he denied the men in the house of pain their nightly prey.  
  
Which was bloody brilliant, thought the Boy, and from that day forward the man had two   
shadows.   
  
This Watchman and bringer-of-order was not a bright man, not as clever as his enemies;   
but he moved in straight lines, while the rest of the world moved in curves, and the Boy   
admired his ability to continually survive while doing so. In a time of riots, the   
Watchman lit the lamp over the Watch House, and walked amongst the people as if he had   
not been the great general they rumoured him to be. The Boy watched, and listened, and   
learned, and shot a man who would kill the Watchman.   
  
(This paragraph was apparently added later; it is in a separate sheet tucked between two   
notebook pages, and seems to read like a much older Vetinari. -- ed.)  
  
The Boy would remember, in later years, that he might soon have been sent to kill the   
Watchman, for he was too ready to lead men, and too good at the leading, to be safe   
in the city. The Watchman could have told him that no such thing occupied his mind,   
but the Boy was young, and impatient, and the Watchman could turn hearts to great works.  
  
(end added section. -- ed.)  
  
In the revolution, while the Boy awaited his chance to rid Ankh-Morpork of a madman, the   
Watchman held a barricade across a quarter of the city, pushing the rule of law further   
and further into the heart of the town, and incidentally snapping up all the useful bits   
like the cattle market on his way.   
  
And the Boy, no doubt, did his own duty as well, in the knowledge that the Watchman's   
order must someday prevail in his city.  
  
But when?  
  
***  
  
Things had changed for Sam Vimes.  
  
Oh, there was young Sam, of course, and a baby changes even the most solidly set of men,   
through a cunning strategy of sleep deprivation and emotional abuse.* There was Sybil to   
care for, because one does not simply bounce back from bearing an entirely new life and   
bringing it into the world. He had to run the house, and make sure the dragons were fed,   
and a million other things that Sybil had done without his even noticing it. He couldn't   
be at the Yard as often, and wouldn't even if he could, an entirely new sensation in his   
experience.  
  
---  
* Because nothing gives you an inferiority complex like not being able to stop your own   
child crying at two in the morning.   
---  
  
But there were other changes, which touched on his life outside of the house on Scoone   
Avenue, changes in the way he held himself, in the way others treated him.  
  
Vetinari, for example. It wasn't anything you could actually see, and it wasn't really   
anything you could point at as evidence. But there was...not a deference, exactly, but a   
respect, in the Patrician's eyes. Because Vetinari had been sixteen and had seen what   
John Keel could do. In that time and that place, yes; the Patrician never forgot the   
power of John Keel's rhetoric.   
  
Nevertheless, it was always difficult to tell what the Patrician was thinking.  
  
He had an expression, learned young, that was as close to expressionless as you could get   
while still possessing a face. Vimes had never been able to crack through it, when it   
appeared, but he had grown used to what might, in Vetinari, be considered moods. In other   
men, they would be considered pauses, or possibly hesitations. Vetinari, for his part,   
was less likely to hide them. They understood each other too well.  
  
There was no doubt that the Patrician was in a filthy mood this morning. He'd actually   
scowled. His voice hadn't changed at all from its normal low tone, but Vimes had   
definitely seen a scowl, and now he was staring out the window at the city, which he   
always did when he was irritated. Pretty soon, he was probably going to use a metaphor.   
  
If he uses more than one, Vimes decided, I'm going to duck and cover.   
  
"Okraippenschet," said the Patrician. Vimes blinked.  
  
"Okrai...?"  
  
"It's an Uberwaldean word. It means the moment before everything goes all to hell."  
  
"Aagragaah."  
  
"I'm sure I have a throat sweet -- "  
  
"It's Trollish. Means about the same thing. Forbodeings."  
  
"How appropriate." Vetinari turned, and put his hands flat on his desk. His left hand  
strayed to a pile of letters nearby. "I believe, Commander, that I am indeed having   
forbodeings."  
  
This was unnerving. Vetinari having forbodeings meant that something was going to happen   
and the Patrician didn't actually /know/ it was going to happen. When Vetinari had a gut   
feeling, Vimes got a pain in the neck.   
  
"Could do a street survey," Vimes suggested. "Haul in some suspects, shake down some   
stools, dig out a few moles. Andre hasn't heard anything unusual, or he'd have told me."  
  
"I do not think city scuttlebutt will be of much use in this matter. You may ask Sergeant   
Angua if she has heard anything on the howl. You have agents in the Sto Plains, do you   
not?"  
  
"/Officers/," Vimes corrected. "Like to give me a clue what to ask them, or shall I try   
for the riddle of the week?"  
  
Vetinari raised one eyebrow, slightly.  
  
"Be on the watch," he said. "That is all. No pun intended. Aha."  
  
"Hah," Vimes barked, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Sto Plains means travelers. From   
Uberwald?"  
  
"If you wish to act upon assumptions, Sir Samuel, I cannot stop you," Vetinari said   
briskly. "That is all, I believe. Good day."  
  
Vimes would have pushed, if he thought it would do any good, but Vetinari's face had   
closed itself off when he mentioned Uberwald. Which, in itself, was more information   
than the Patrician generally betrayed.  
  
***  
  
My dear Havelock,  
  
It is difficult for a woman of advanced years to consider anyone younger than, say, a   
dozen decades, as a fully grown man. I had thought to leave you to your own devices for   
a few years, to see whether you prospered or perished, though I had no doubt you should   
thrive. I forget that decades pass quickly for the mortal.  
  
Perhaps you received my letter of congratulation on your ascension to the Patricianship;   
though the mail was highly untrustworthy such a short time ago, I shall not doubt that   
this one, at any rate, will find you quite quickly. I suppose you, with your stability   
and control, have only yourself to blame for the speed of its delivery. If the original   
did not reach you, allow me to extend my congratulations now.  
  
The recent ambassadorial visit from your Sir Samuel reminded me that I have interests in   
Ankh-Morpork, just as I'm sure my rather unsubtle inquiries brought me to your attention   
after so many years. I hope it did not stir up unpleasant memories for you.   
  
Tell me, Havelock, do you suppose we could speak like civil people once more? After all,   
we did manage it for the better part of a week, once. True, we were much younger then.   
But as we say in the Temperance League, everything is taken one day at a time.   
  
You were so wise, Havelock, so many years ago. I would dread to think what you could   
do with the power you have achieved, but I know that power is, for you, merely a   
side-effect. Do you still rule because it is your duty, Havelock, or do you take any   
pleasure from it, in these times? I think you must. I think you would not have sent the   
Duke of Ankh to Uberwald if you had not cultivated quite a subtle sense of humour. You   
see, I do know you, still. I wonder if, as you taught me, I could find your levers even   
now. I wonder if you would allow me.  
  
I hope you are well, Havelock. I do not doubt it. Well, and clever, and wedded to the   
city you cried out for in your sleep, so long ago, like a homesick boy.   
  
Margolotta.  
  
***  
  
Office of the Patrician  
  
To: Margolotta von Uberwald  
Zer Castle  
Bonk, Uberwald  
  
If you would speak to me, Lady Margolotta, you should not write letters; I cannot hear  
you in them. You surprise me yet, as you always could, but I do not think you would come   
to Ankh-Morpork. So we must remain as we are.   
  
I /was/ a homesick boy. Now I sleep quite well.  
  
Havelock Vetinari  
Patrician  
  
***  
  
My dear Havelock,  
  
Why shouldn't you come to Uberwald, if you are so desperate for my voice? The coaching   
roads hold no fear for you. I am sure there must be business you could attend to, in the   
mountains; the Low King has invited you to visit, has...he...not? I imagine a few weeks   
of your diplomatic mediation and the intertribal wars between the trolls and dwarves   
would stop, if only out of sheer terror.   
  
Your letter reads rather like a lover's, you know. One hopes you trusted it to be   
delivered securely. Ah yes; the addresses, how very clever. Who indeed would open a   
package from Corporal Igor of the Watch, to a fellow Igor in Uberwald? I wonder, did you   
commission the removal of that hand to send to him, or did you merely take advantage of   
the moment?   
  
I hear you have been injured, and walk with a limp. Strange to imagine you an old man.   
You are old, now? But then you were always old. I think you would laugh, to see me.   
Perhaps Commander Vimes has mentioned our little talks.   
  
My friend Otto lives in the city, now, and I hear he is gaining quite a reputation as an   
iconographer. He always was the obsessive type. He would, if asked, accept a letter in   
return for this one. I say this merely as an item of interest; even public figures such   
as yourself should not have to stuff letters into other peoples' packages to ensure their   
privacy.  
  
Why not come to Uberwald, Havelock?  
  
Margolotta.  
  
***  
  
Office of the Patrician  
  
To: Margolotta von Uberwald  
Zer Castle  
Bonk, Uberwald  
  
Mr. Chriek...such an interesting man. I do believe you are right, and that he has not   
read your letter, or mine. I wonder what is wrong with him.  
  
I cannot come to Uberwald. I will not leave my city. If you doubt this, I suggest that   
you remember our first night in the high bedroom.  
  
Havelock Vetinari  
Patrician  
  
***  
  
My dear Havelock,  
  
Such a short letter, to travel such a long distance.   
  
I remember that you did not make me come to you -- you merely made me knock first. I came   
of my own accord. Remember, Havelock, it was I who chose you, not the other way around.   
You may control the way in which we meet, but you will never control whether or not we   
do.   
  
Now, Havelock, what do /you/ remember of the time we spent teaching each other? Do you   
look back fondly, or do you try to put it from your mind? Perhaps you do not care enough   
to do either. Perhaps, though I doubt it, there have been other, brighter flames. Have no   
fear, I have no use for rummaging around in your past, and shan't bother.   
  
I remember when you told me my lessons were finished, but I should never have the courage   
to use them. I think you already know that you were wrong. But then, as you said, you had   
less than two decades behind you. One mistake might be allowed.  
  
And now they mint coins with your likeness, and you rule the greatest city on the Disc,   
and send men to Uberwald to disrupt our quiet way of life. You said I would not come to   
Ankh-Morpork; I think you would not dare to come here, either. I think you know that your   
survival would be slim, with only the weak protection of the Lore.   
  
Margolotta.  
  
***  
  
Office of the Patrician  
  
To: Margolotta von Uberwald  
Zer Castle  
Bonk, Uberwald  
  
If you asked me to come to Uberwald for your sake, not for politics or for mere   
curiousity, I do not know how I should answer. Does not that frighten you?  
  
I have no regrets.   
  
Havelock Vetinari  
Patrician  
  
***  
  
Ankh-Morpork was bustling its way through the morning, doing business, running scams,   
stealing, chasing, shouting. It was a Watchman's paradise, but Vimes was too distracted   
to notice any of it.   
  
What made Vetinari anxious about the old country? Trade was fine. The Low King wouldn't   
be leaving so soon after taking power, and no other countries nearby were powerful enough   
to worry Vetinari. Yet.  
  
Wolfgang's militia might have reorganized, but Angua would have heard. Some power-mad   
little king coming to gain Ankh-Morpork's allegiance? Probably not.  
  
He stopped dead in the middle of the street, and nearly got run over by a cart full of   
vegetables.  
  
No.  
  
It couldn't be.  
  
Could it? She wouldn't. There wasn't any /reason/ for her to come to Ankh-Morpork.  
  
Except that the Uberwaldean Temperance League had an awfully large following in the city.   
Margolotta was a black-ribboner, and knowing her, she wasn't just a one-meeting-a-week   
kind of woman. She was an organiser of things.   
  
Oh, bloody hell.   
  
Margolotta von Uberwald was coming to Ankh-Morpork.  
  
Damn, double-damn all vampires!  
  
Vimes began chewing his cigar, a certain sign that someone was going to be in a world of   
pain by the end of the day. There was a clacks office a few streets down, and he could   
have messages out to the Sto Lat Sammies in less than an hour. He could put Downspout and   
Cornice on the roof of the little building where the Ankh-Morpork black-ribboners met. He   
could double the guard on the Pa --   
  
The Palace?  
  
Now why had he thought that?  
  
Because Margolotta knew Vetinari. She'd admitted that much. Because she thought like him.   
Vimes suspected, though he had no solid evidence to back it up*, that Vetinari had been a   
much younger man when they met. Still Vetinari, though...  
  
---  
* As though this had ever stopped him before.  
---  
  
***  
  
Havelock Vetinari, in his office high above the city, let his hand pick up the last   
letter from Margolotta, let himself open it and read it again. He rested two fingers of   
his right hand against his chin, thoughtfully.  
  
Politics was a dangerous game, even more so when it was tied up with personal history.   
He'd never faced this particular situation before, and while he had long ago examined and   
laid to rest any...misgivings, about leaving Uberwald, he had not been able to resist   
replying to Margolotta's taunts and questions, even in his own cryptic fashion. But it   
was safe, wasn't it? She would not leave Uberwald, and he certainly couldn't leave   
Ankh-Morpork.  
  
But she /had/ left Uberwald. Else why hadn't she written? And his...hah, as Vimes put it,   
his 'officers' in the mountains had confirmed it.   
  
Oh bloody hell.  
  
His eyes -- the same cool, blank blue as always -- scanned the delicate writing.  
  
/Do you look back fondly, or do you try to put it from your mind? Perhaps you do not care   
enough to do either./  
  
He stopped reading, and set the letter down, folding it with care.  
  
You are not nineteen, Havelock, however ageless she may be. You are the ruler of the most   
powerful city on the Discworld, which, by the way, you should be getting back to ruling,   
since you know Drumknott is waiting in the anteroom to be summoned. There are four Guild   
representatives you have to frighten into submission by the end of the day, and countless   
little reports to read, orders to give, to keep the mechanism running smoothly.  
  
You've wound up Vimes. He'll do as he usually does. Keeps him from making trouble, at any   
rate.  
  
Get on with things.  
  
So he did, as he always had.   
  
/And now they mint coins with your likeness.../  
  
*** 


	3. Dialogues

For more of Chapter Two, including the Editor's Note, see 'Room Vith a View' part 3.  
  
Also, this is just barely germaine, but I've written a comic called Young Havelock  
Adventures that is currently in production. Thought I'd share :) The script can be   
found at my blog at or.  
  
"Not even a rap at the window for old times' sake?" he asked, almost lightly.  
  
"You veren't here ven I...arrived," she said, with an impatient wave of her hand. "Come   
out of the shadows, Havelock, and let me have a proper look at you."  
  
"Your night-vision is excellent," he answered, but he did step out into the library --   
being careful to use his stick.   
  
She was quite good at containing herself. Her eyes barely flickered as she took in the   
changes in him. The dark trousers and shirts that he'd worn in Uberwald, gone, replaced   
by shabby black robes of office; his hair just beginning to show a few threads of grey.   
Lines in his face, and a goatee that was, it had to be said, showing more than a /few/   
threads. A limp, a cane. But still Havelock Vetinari. Wiser and older, but still him.  
  
"How do you find an old man?" he asked.   
  
"Not as old as I had imagined," she replied.   
  
"Not a boy of nineteen anymore."  
  
"You vere never a boy, Havelock. And how do you find me?" she asked. "Have I changed, in   
your mind, over the years?"  
  
"Not so very much."  
  
She smiled. "Vill you kiss me hello?"  
  
"No, Margolotta, I think not," he said, slowly. "Let us not presume too much upon   
nostalgia."  
  
If she was hurt, she'd learned to hide it better than in the past. She nodded.  
  
"You've been quite a bother, in recent months," he continued, seating himself in one of   
the library's hard wooden chairs. "I've had to watch my communications with Uberwald most   
carefully. You tipped your hand too soon, inquiring after Vimes before I'd decided to   
appoint him ambassador."  
  
"I did not come to Ankh-Morpork to speak to you of politics," Margolotta said evenly.  
  
"Then why did you come?" he asked, in the same quiet tone she'd used to greet him. "Why   
are you in my city, Margolotta?"  
  
Her face changed in an instant, to a brilliant, charming smile.  
  
"You invited me, Havelock."  
  
And then she did walk to the window, and undid the latch with a flick of her fingers, and   
stepped out into the gloom, vanishing from sight.  
  
He very carefully did not run, as he went to the window to look out. There was a distant   
purple glow, over the Tower of Art, and that was all.  
  
*** 


	4. Patriotism and Private Life

THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?  
But that's a useless question.  
You hardly know when you are coming back,  
You will find so much to learn."  
--TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER THREE: PATRIOTISM AND PRIVATE LIFE  
  
Editor's note: Chapter Three, the first traditionally styled section of the Papers,   
begins to read more like the politically-minded, manipulative Vetinari of later years.   
Apparently, on writing this, he has completed his education and begun "private life" as   
the chapter title suggests.   
  
***  
  
Upon entering into private life and service to the city, be it honest charitable service   
or the less rewarding civil employment, a man may find himself at a loss for how best to   
present his unique skills for consideration. It is therefore advisable, though not   
particularly enjoyable, for a young man of means to arrange gatherings and salons for the   
edification and enjoyment of his comrades. In this way, a measure of the competition may   
be taken, and with some little arrangements, particularly involving alcohol or arsenic, a   
reduction of competition is certainly possible.   
  
When a young man finds himself outstanding amongst colleagues, it is a natural occurrence   
for them to wish to bring him to their level. This is inadvisable, as mediocrity is as   
certain a death as poisoning, and far less brief. Wisdom dictates that the capable,   
intelligent man have a care not to appear too capable, or indeed too intelligent. A   
certain amount of boyish indiscretion may cover a multitude of ills.  
  
For example, should a man of twenty-one take to studying statesmanship, it is advisable   
that he study it under the watchful eye of a senior Seamstress. It is far more acceptable   
for a man of twenty-one to pay such visits for personal pleasure, than for education and   
acquisition of his political skills. In addition, many a woman knows secrets she would   
never tell a man who shared her bed, but will easily tell a man who uses her writing   
desk.   
  
If kept up long enough, it may be assumed that the young man in fact suffers from a   
particular vice, and his enemies, of which there are always a multitude, may become   
rather relaxed, believing that they may have him by the brevi crini* at any time.  
  
---  
* Editor's Note: Thought to translate as "virtuous actions" and possibly ironic.   
---  
  
For the youth preparing to embark upon a career in the political arena, however, there   
are cautions to put forward. Arenas often contain dangerous creatures; it is the reason   
they are enclosed and separate. Patriotism in moderation is a fine thing, and a true   
ruler derives his motivation solely from love of city, but beware the man who is willing   
to die for the city's safety. Such men are only half-hearted patriots. Death is far   
easier than a life of servitude and possibly even humiliation in the best interests of   
the city. All else is romanticism or idealism, neither of which have any place in   
politics, except as the emotions of a man who is soon to lose his head. When one meets a   
true romantic, one should retreat as quickly as possible to a more defensible position,   
or force him to.   
  
As children, we mock those who are different: the smart, the stupid, the ugly, and the   
unlucky. But there is always one child who has, in the past, done something so horrific   
that no child will touch him. Envy this child, for they have learned that one desperate   
act ensures a lifetime of safety.  
  
Of course, when we grow to adulthood we sensibly and logically outgrow the irrational   
fear of the different. My word, yes. But we always recall reputation, and if we know a   
dog has bitten our hand once, we hesitate to strike it a second time. Soon enough, the   
dog will be left to its devices with hardly a thought for when, or how hard, the original   
bite was.  
  
Reputation, it would appear, is nine-tenths of the law*. In life, especially   
the life of society, what is said about one becomes the truth instantly and immediately.   
  
---  
* The other tenth being a sharp, pointed stick with which one makes the reputation in   
the first place.  
---  
  
It is best to cultivate one dangerous habit, as a politician; it proves to the populace   
that ruthlessness may extend to them, if they are not careful. A small foible, such as an   
intense, burning hatred of street performers, can frighten even the most deadly of   
adversaries into hesitation.  
  
Hesitation is all a true master of the game needs, in order to defeat his opponent.   
  
***  
  
Drumknott, who prided himself on having a butler's discretion as well as a secretary's   
literary sense and a clerk's organisation, was always the first person in the Patrician's   
rooms in the morning. As Lord Vetinari did not require a fire to be set in his bedroom,   
there was no need for a scullery maid, and Drumknott brought his Lordship's breakfast up   
personally. He always arrived sharply at eight o'clock, and generally found the Patrician   
awake, with a pile of the day's first paperwork for him. On occasion, Vetinari   
had actually returned from his office to his rooms to greet Drumknott. The secretary   
didn't ask, and Vetinari never said, how often he slept. He had never, in better than five   
years' service, found his employer asleep.   
  
And he did not find him so now. Quite the opposite. Vetinari was in his library, still in   
his robes from the night before*, pacing, occasionally stopping to touch the spine of a   
book, before turning to pace again. When he saw Drumknott, his eyes strayed to the clock,   
and his face took on a look of intense, interested self-analysis.  
  
---  
* Black, of course, but the black with the mildly frayed trim, as opposed to the black   
with the dagger-concealing cuffs, or the black with the Assassins' Guild insignia on the   
breast, or the extra-black black for formal occasions. Vetinari was not a man who changed   
a good thing. Especially if it was black.  
---  
  
Drumknott, who in addition to his other qualities had a copper's instinct for   
self-preservation, set the tray down carefully.  
  
"Morning, your Lordship," he said.   
  
"Good morning," the Patrician replied. He stopped pacing, but still appeared...  
indecisive.   
  
"Brought your breakfast, sir," Drumknott continued, to cover his nerves. "Water and dry   
toast, hardboiled egg. And, er..."  
  
One of the Patrician's eyebrows raised slightly.  
  
"Cook thought you might like blueberry pancakes," said the clerk, miserably. "I try to   
tell him, sir, but he gets so despondent if I don't at least bring it up -- "  
  
"A trustworthy cook is worth the occasional...personality quirk," Vetinari replied. He   
looked down at the pancakes -- swimming in syrup and butter -- with mild distaste. "You   
like blueberries, don't you, Drumknott?"  
  
"Yes, sir, I suppose so..."  
  
"Good. Sit." Vetinari waved him into one of the uncomfortable library chairs, and took   
another one. He began to eat with his usual quick grace -- spills and crumbs were things   
that happened to other people. Drumknott sat, slowly, with the air of one who is trying   
to think what he's done wrong, and consider how badly he'll be yelled at for it. He   
could not recall Vetinari spontaneously inviting anyone to dine with him before, and   
certainly not a clerk.  
  
"You've eaten?" Vetinari asked, after a moment. Drumknott toyed with the fork.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Then do you intend to?"  
  
"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather -- "  
  
"I will be expecting official visitors from Uberwald, either late this evening or early   
tomorrow morning," Vetinari said briskly. "Commander Vimes will, no doubt, notify you.   
He'll probably be rather angry about it, so I suggest you fortify yourself."  
  
Drumknott took a bite of the pancakes. Very, very carefully, he swallowed.  
  
"I think perhaps a party must be arranged. One of those tiresome political ones, with the   
dreadful small appetizers and warm punch."  
  
The clerk was on firmer ground here. Being asked the impossible was par for the course;   
it was being asked to sit and eat with Vetinari that he'd had difficulty with. "Of   
course, sir," he replied, around another very small bite of food. "In the Palace hall?"  
  
Vetinari gave him a mild, cynical smile. "Do ask Lady Ramkin if she would be willing to   
host it, would you? Tell her we shall make all the arrangements. All she need do is   
provide the space. I recall the mansion on Scoone Avenue has a particularly fine   
ballroom."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Vetinari drew a notebook towards him, and began to write with one hand while he sliced   
the top off his boiled egg with the other*. "Send these to our agent in Uberwald," he   
said. "The first in the breakable code. The second in Leonard's Code."  
  
---  
* Anyone who has attempted this will go some way towards understanding the sort of man   
Ankh-Morpork required as a ruler.  
---  
  
Drumknott took the paper, read it, thought about it for a moment, and smiled inwardly.  
  
"Pseudopolis will double its candle orders from the city if it thinks our fat supply is   
going to die out," he said.  
  
"Will it? How droll," Vetinari replied. "Pre-emptive economics is a wonderful thing,   
Drumknott. That will be all. Do not forget your pancakes."  
  
***  
  
If you could break the Patrician's thought process down into its component parts, which   
is not something to be attempted lightly, they might go something like this:  
  
1. People want reasons for things to happen.  
  
2. People want there to be a reason that a diplomat from Uberwald is visiting the   
Patrician.  
  
3. Such as, trade negotiation.  
  
3a. Or a long-dead romantic attachment, which is rather less acceptable.   
  
4. We have a very good trade agreement with the Low King, which could easily go south.  
  
5. One coded message to the Ankh-Morpork ambassador in Uberwald, to be delivered to the  
Low King, indicates new negotiations in the works.  
  
5a. While the unbreakable coded message indicates that the first should be ignored and   
not delivered to the Low King at all.  
  
6. Assumption made by the general public, when given access to the breakably coded   
message: The Patrician's going to lose the good trade agreement.  
  
7. Resultant thought: Let's buy while it's cheap.  
  
8. Continuation: Let's buy a lot while it's cheap.  
  
All his actions really /did/ were improve business, deflect curiosity from Vetinari's   
rather mysterious personal life, and give Margolotta a perfect excuse to pay him a visit.   
  
Vimes' process was much less complicated:   
  
1. That damn vampire's coming to my city.  
  
2. Angry.  
  
3. Need a drink.  
  
But since he couldn't have a drink, he chewed his cigar and waited, in the early evening   
gloom, for the coach to arrive.  
  
Vetinari's clerk had been very polite through all the shouting. Especially the very loud   
shouting about Vetinari using his own damn ballroom, which had come to an abrupt end when   
Sybil cleared her throat in a certain way. It was a way he'd grown to recognise, his   
husbanding circuitry indicating that he ought to stop shouting now and let her handle it,   
or he'd wake the baby and then he, that is to say, Commander Samuel Vimes, would be   
sleeping in the dragon house.   
  
Now there were clerks and decorators all over the damn place, and a new cook had already   
invaded the kitchen, putting the Vimes-Ramkin family cook into mild hysterics -- which   
had admittedly been entertaining to watch -- all so that tomorrow, Vimes could have a   
party for a vampire.  
  
Whereas tonight, he got to stand at the city gates, and wait and watch for her to arrive.   
  
He'd toyed with the idea of putting her through customs checks and baggage searches, as   
she'd tried to do to him when his party arrived in Bonk, but he decided against it. He   
just wanted to see if she really was coming into the city. Besides, in Ankh-Morpork the   
Law was...well, it wasn't exactly respected, but it was at least acknowledged, and he had   
no need to assert himself as Margolotta'd had to do in a place where Lore prevailed.   
  
So here he was, hunched down in his greatcoat, helmet plonked on his head, eyes and   
cigar-ember showing, in the chill of the early autumn evening, waiting for a vampire to   
roll into his city and start making a mess.  
  
There was no way Margolotta was /not/ going to make a mess. She was that sort of person.   
The question was how big a mess, and who would have to clean it up.  
  
The answer to the second part was, depressingly and invariably, Sam Vimes.   
  
He didn't move, didn't even blink as the black carriage approached. Blended down into the   
shadows.   
  
It was the same one she used in Uberwald, though there was an actual driver holding the   
reins now*. The same black horses.   
  
---  
* One of the many Igors who served the noble families of the mountains; you could tell   
this was Margolotta's because of the scar patterns, and the third eyebrow.  
---  
  
He'd known she was coming, he'd talked to his officers in the Sto Plains and had Angua   
pick up the news from the howl. But until he saw the carriage pull past, he hadn't wanted   
to believe it.   
  
Godsdamned vampires!  
  
***  
  
Uberwald didn't really have a reigning government, nothing so formal as the Patricianship   
in Ankh-Morpork, but then Uberwald was quite a bit larger, and the rule of succession   
could sometimes get a little dicey when you stabbed your predecessor and then twenty   
minutes later he rose from the grave.   
  
The big ruling families had, however, gotten together and managed to arrange for   
embassies in some of the plains cities nearby. Genua had one, and Ankh-Morpork hosted one   
for most of the Sto Plains. As an acknowledged goodwill ambassador from Uberwald --   
though perhaps stretching the 'goodwill' part of the term just a touch -- Margolotta   
would stay in the embassy with Igor. The humans who ran the embassy had not been warned   
of this, and so had not been given time to make judicious purchases of holy water or   
garlic to carry about their person.   
  
They all agreed that Milady was nice enough. She didn't have obscene amounts of luggage,   
she brought her own valet, and she didn't shout at anyone.   
  
Twenty minutes after her arrival, a slightly nervous-looking young man arrived on the   
embassy doorstep bearing a gold-edged invitation. Margolotta accepted it and opened it,   
reading carefully. Her eyes darted up to the unlucky delivery man, over the edge of the   
card.  
  
"Lordship says I was to wait for a reply," the man said promptly. Margolotta smiled,   
displaying even white teeth.   
  
"Tell his Lordship I vill accept zer invitation, und I look forward to seeing him at the   
reception," she said easily. The man nodded sharply, and very nearly bolted from the   
room.  
  
"I see my reputation precedes me," she murmured. Igor appeared from the shadows.  
  
"Mithtreth, we're being watched," he said, opening a small carrying case and removing   
Margolotta's dinner, which it was wise not to examine too closely.   
  
"The Commander? Oh yes. I vouldn't call it 'vatched'. Ve're being brooded upon. Let him   
have his fun," she said, with a wave of the hand. "The poor man has to have something to   
occupy him. Now. Tomorrow evening there is to be a formal reception. I shall have a dress   
made here, in Ankh-Morpork; find me a fast seamstress und provide her vith the necessary   
information. Vhile you're at it, call in at the clacks tower and collect any messages. In   
the meantime..." she stretched, languidly, and grinned. "I have a dinner date."  
  
***  
  
In the office of the /Times/, people were panicking.   
  
This was not an unusual occurrence. William de Worde, who had once valued his boring,   
indoor job quite highly, now found himself living on a razor's edge of nerves that were   
fueled by coffee, terrible food, and over-work in large amounts. Somewhere, news was   
happening, and people were trying to mobilise to get out and capture it before it got   
away.   
  
Otto, who had begun training other iconographers and was rather better at taking days off   
than his employer, was working busily in the basement office, arranging and re-arranging   
several sheets of iconographs for his first Ankh-Morpork show. It was soothing, and more   
importantly, it was out of the way of the running feet up above.   
  
"My vord, vhat a busy place," someone said. A face appeared over his shoulder. "Oh, that   
von, of the troll, that's very good, Otto."  
  
"Margolotta!" Otto cried, turning to greet her with a broad grin. Two vampires, smiling   
at each other, is more teeth than ever ought to be in one place at one time. "I didn't   
know you vere in zer city! Straazti vilkomen!"  
  
"Vangoi, Otto. Straazti bigun smela."  
  
Otto laughed, and gave her a brief hug of welcome. "Vot brinks you to Ankh-Morpork? No   
vait -- " he held up a finger. "Diplomacy!"  
  
"Some of us take pictures, some of us are in them," Margolotta answered. "I came at the   
kind invitation of the Patrician."  
  
"Politics," Otto said delightedly. "You muszt let me take your picture -- "  
  
"Oh, vait for tomorrow," she replied. "There is to be a big reception for the ambassadress   
from Ubervald. At the home of the Duke of Ankh."  
  
Otto's grin, if it was possible, widened. "Zere never is!"  
  
"Oh yes. Come, darling, ve must have dinner und discuss it. I hear zer kosher butcher's   
in Long Hogsmeat has vonderful atmosphere."  
  
Otto laid down what he was doing and led the way up the stairs. "It iz our first ethnic   
restaurant!" he declared proudly, over the noise of the press. "Zough ve have much   
trouble gettink anyvon else to appreciate Ubervald delicacies!"  
  
*** 


	5. Control

Oh my god! He posts!  
  
Quick announcement: I depart for Texas on the 19th and then for Boston on the 2nd of  
June; while I will have access in Texas, I may have only very sketchy access while in  
Boston, where I'll be the rest of the summer. So. I may drop off the face of the Earth   
for a while. But I'll be thinking of all of you :)   
  
And now onwards...  
  
Chapter Five and still not a plot in sight! How do you do it, Sam? ::modest:: Oh,   
it's nothing really, gentle readers...  
  
I took Vetinari's 'cap' from a piece of fanart; it's a portrait of Vetinari done by a   
man named Simon Lissaman, so he gets all due credit for the idea. Check out his art --   
it's well worth it -- at digitalart dot org slash artwork dot php?ID=19778.  
  
Sorry to do it that way but otherwise ff.net screens it out.  
  
THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
"I am always sure that you understand  
My feelings, always sure that you feel,  
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.  
You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.  
You will go on, and when you have prevailed  
You can say: at this point many a one has failed."  
--TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER FIVE: CONTROL  
  
Editor's Note: There are many rumours surrounding Vetinari's appointment to Patrician.   
Whether or not he did indeed arrange for it, it is almost certain that he expected it to   
occur, sooner or later.   
  
In Chapter Five we see the fully-developed literary voice of still-young Havelock   
Vetinari, an intellectual voice devoid of its earlier romanticism and yet, at the same   
time, showing a thorough understanding of it. There is no doubt in the Editor's mind that   
this chapter was written either during or shortly after Vetinari's rise.   
  
There is one apocryphal anecdote that states he spent his first night as Patrician   
writing, after which he destroyed the papers he had written. Certain singed scraps have   
appeared, over the years, claiming to be the Patrician's lost writing; none have ever   
even had their claims acknowledged by the Palace. Perhaps, undestroyed, Chapter Five may   
be considered the lost writings that were supposedly burnt so long ago.  
  
***  
  
But wait.  
  
Why read about control?  
  
When one has the power to read about so much more.   
  
Burn it? His first writings in office? Not unless he had to...  
  
There is a book, on Lord Havelock Vetinari's bookshelf -- one of many in his private   
library. A dreary volume on civic planning in Quirm. And inside, an envelope still   
addressed though never sent, with the dual wax seals of the Patrician and the family   
Vetinari. Heavy paper, the kind he still uses for personal correspondences -- not that   
he's had many, in recent years. Nor is this a recent letter. It has been pressed flat   
by too much time between pages, and the ink has begun to fade, but it is still oh,   
so legible.  
  
Its existence has been all but forgotten. It was a long time ago, after all, and he was   
a different man.   
  
***  
  
Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician  
On the eve of his ascension to office  
  
To Margolotta von Uberwald  
Zer Castle  
Bonk, Uberwald   
  
My own Margolotta:  
  
Is it not shocking? Will you not be surprised? No, you of all people will not be, though   
my acquaintances in the city most certainly will. Havelock Vetinari? That timid, quiet   
young man? /Patrician/? Surely not, why would they appoint such a wet blanket as   
Vetinari? Or perhaps they will call me a nutter. I would think the two would be mutually   
exclusive, but I have learned never to underestimate the general population.  
  
The answer is, of course, that I have been appointed because those doing the appointing   
think they can control me, which is an illusion I have quite carefully maintained as I   
pulled their own highly visible strings. They think I will make an elegant, scandal-less   
figurehead. After all, am I not an ascetic? I eat little, I sleep little, I do not have   
a whisper of rumour about me -- except the carefully concealed ones they keep as blackmail,   
about my visits to Rosemary Palm's house of...oh, what a quaint phrase she has! Negotiable   
affection. If they knew that I go only in search of a quiet place to study, if they knew   
Rosie was an ally, they might be slightly more afraid. In the morning, they will see.  
  
I have never known a time when I did not love my city. I have planned for this day all my   
years, it seems to me, but now that it is here, I come to understand that I have been   
playing at a game of soldiers, that my ambitions and plans have been an entertainment.   
Like my adolescent pastimes of tormenting Cyril de Worde (surely you remember Cyril? Tall   
boy, ridiculously obsessed with truth-telling? He has two sons now. I fear they will be   
either painfully honest or extremely good liars).   
  
It has all been nothing more than a pastime. Some men breed horses, but I couldn't be a   
normal man, could I? I had to breed the perfect coup instead. Can I now live up to the   
ideals of the man I pretended to be?  
  
I do not complain, I have taken this on myself. In ten years, mark you, we will be a   
force to be reckoned with, across the Disc. I know how I shall do this. The delicious   
anticipation is in actually accomplishing it. It is as taking a test, when you know you   
will pass; there is an enjoyment about it. But there is also a great fear, a great   
longing for a life in which nothing is more important than what cravat I should wear to   
the next dance.  
  
Joyous day, I shall never have to wear a cravat again. The robes of office are quite   
severe, and do not allow for much decoration. They look rather like something that   
belongs to a wizard too cheap to buy proper robes and -- once they have been fitted to   
me -- I suspect too cheap to feed himself properly, either.   
  
I could write to you all night. With you there need not be an order to my thoughts. With   
you, I need not explain unless I wish to. How can it be that a vampire in Uberwald who   
has never set foot in Ankh-Morpork is the only one who could ever keep step with me? How   
can it be that you, who sacrificed the life worth living for Tradition, still understand   
me better than the keenest political rival I have in the city? In nearly ten years I have   
never found a woman worthy of competition with you. Some may be favourably compared, but   
none have surpassed your wit and intellect. But your flaw, Margolotta, is that you refuse   
the life I embrace. So until one of us falters...  
  
Perish the thought.  
  
I remain in some part, yours,  
  
Havelock Vetinari  
Patrician  
  
***  
  
For any other man, the morning's work might have been difficult; some of it might have   
seemed trifling. The anticipation of Margolotta's arrival at the Palace would have thrown   
our hypothetical Otherman into fits of impatience. But Havelock Vetinari, who had calmly   
waited through a war for the right time to strike, who had spent hours attempting to hold   
coherent conversations with Leonard of Quirm, and who on a /daily basis/ read more   
useless information than the /Times'/ Society Page editor, was not Otherman.  
  
It was a fine day, only a trifle too hot, but the Oblong Office remained cool and dim as   
he attended to the duties of the morning. There were complaints, always of course, and   
reports from spies, and petitions for various laws to be enacted. He set one or two of   
the petitions aside for Drumknott, who had begun a wall in the clerks' anteroom devoted   
to the choicest suggestions, among them the Seagull Ban from last Tuesday and the   
Regulation Of Rain Act from sometime last year -- that one had actually been quite   
popular, and several hundred people had damply signed it, Sir Samuel Vimes amongst them   
(though he was sure Vimes' signature had a sarcastic air about it).   
  
Only a man as attuned to his masters' moods as Drumknott might have noticed that the   
Patrician grew increasingly brusque as the day wore on. But Drumknott was busy, and the  
other clerks were far too afraid of Vetinari's sarcasm at the best of times, to notice an   
increase in it on this particular day.  
  
By evening, he was downright /sharp/. It went very hard for the prisoners at the   
afternoon's sentencings; they'd still have gotten the same punishments, more or less,   
but, as they say, it's all in the delivery.  
  
Sentencing had traditionally required the Patrician to wear a blindfold, to prove that   
justice was blind; several past Patricians, quicker on the uptake than their much more   
short-lived fellows, had been quite imaginative in their methods of concealing eyeholes   
in the blindfolds. Vetinari, who knew that justice was never blind but understood the   
human need for symbols, had chosen to do away with the blindfold, and instead wore a   
close-fitting black cap, which covered his head like a helmet, leaving his face. He   
removed it as he stepped back into the Oblong office, smoothing down his hair and   
picking up his pen. The sun had already set, and candles had been lit at his desk.   
  
And Margolotta had not come to the Palace.  
  
"I believe I shall work late this evening, Drumknott," he said, as the clerk followed   
him into the office. "Have dinner brought in around nine, if you would."  
  
"I'm afraid there's one more appointment today," Drumknott said. He tried to appear as   
small as possible.   
  
"I am not interested in any more appointments," Vetinari snapped, uncharacteristically.  
  
"Yes, sir, but you did say Lady Margolotta was to be shown up, if she came," Drumknott   
answered carefully*. "She was very insistent, sir."  
  
---  
* It was one of those little moments when the correct phraseology meant the difference   
between a comfortable life as Vetinari's head clerk, and a comfortable but rather   
shorter life as a marksmanship target.   
---  
  
Vetinari froze.   
  
One finger tapped idly on his desk.  
  
"It would not do to ruin diplomatic relations," he muttered. "Show her in, then."  
  
It wasn't pink, but Margolotta had certainly embraced the concept of 'tourist'. She wore   
a brightly decorated straw sun-hat, which she removed when she walked into the office.   
Her dress was vividly patterned with large flowers*. In deference to her Uberwaldean   
heritage, they /were/ red and black.   
  
---  
* What appeared to be flowers, anyhow. It was best not to examine them too closely.  
---  
  
Somehow, though, she pulled it off. The flowers, the sun-hat, the pink, all of it. He'd   
give quite a lot of money to know how.  
  
"Good evening, Lord Vetinari," she said. Drumknott accepted the hat, bowed, and left the   
room.  
  
"Good evening, Lady Margolotta," he replied. "Have you had an entertaining day?"  
  
"Oh, it vos all right. There are certainly lots of things to see. I vill have to acquire   
some gargoyles for zer castle, I think; they do add such a decorative touch to any   
building. I shall have Igor locate some who vould like the chance to travel." She seated   
herself across the desk from him, and folded her hands in her lap complacently. "Und how   
goes the ruling of the city?"  
  
"It has not fallen into chaos. One might call it a good day," he replied. "We had   
expected you rather earlier than this."  
  
"Yes, I know. I had to spend all day vith that valking Guide Book to Ankh-Morpork, in   
order to time this right," Margolotta said. His expression did not change. She tried   
again. "Vill you not at least invite me to dinner for my trouble?"  
  
"Dinner?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I seem to recall once being asked to show   
Willing, and responding that "willing" did not translate to "neck" in Morporkian..."  
  
"Shocking!" she laughed. "Surely you have some blutvurst about the place?"  
  
"I imagine so. And certainly, since night has now fallen and Ankh-Morpork can be   
dangerous for a woman alone in the city, one ought to extend every courtesy," he said   
thoughtfully. "Lady Margolotta, will you stay to dinner? I understand an underdone roast   
might be arranged."  
  
"I vould be charmed, Lord Vetinari," she replied, graciously. He rose, and offered her   
his arm. He was perfectly composed when she took it. Perfectly composed.  
  
There was a flurry of movement down the hall, as they began a leisurely walk toward the   
State Dining Room, which was used for formal occasions, and had one of those ridiculously   
long tables, with an ornate thronelike chair at the head. He knew, though he could not   
see, that the clerks were rushing to lay linens and silver for them. Undoubtedly someone   
had been sent down to tell cook to prepare something appropriate for Lady Margolotta. It   
had taken some little time, to organise the household this efficiently, but any man who   
could not run a Palace and set a decent table on short notice didn't deserve to be given   
the responsibility for a city. By the time they reached the dining room, it was laid with   
dinner service for two and several candelabras.   
  
"Dinner will be ready shortly, sir," said an impeccably-dressed clerk, appearing at his   
elbow as he pulled Lady Margolotta's chair out for her on one side of the enormous head   
throne, then seated himself across from her. "A course of soup, steak tartare for the   
lady, and the usual for yourself, sir?"  
  
"Yes, thank you," Vetinari said dismissively. The clerk vanished, politely.  
  
"And vot is your usual?" Margolotta asked. "Roast pheasant? Stalled ox?"  
  
"I'm afraid you have a romantic idea of what a Patrician ought to eat," he answered. "It   
is Thursday, is it not? I believe the entree for tonight is sliced fresh bread, with   
marmalade, and perhaps some walnuts if I am particularly hungry."  
  
"Valnuts? That's all?"  
  
"I like walnuts," he replied, unconcerned. "And the soup, of course, because there is   
company. Tomato, I believe."  
  
There was a salad, too, as it turned out. Vetinari picked at it. Food which was green   
made him vaguely suspicious.   
  
He was, however, past master at the art of meaningless conversation. He heard   
Margolotta's account of the Colossus of Morpork and the Dwarf Bread Museum, with its   
'splendid replica of the Scone of Stone -- von might almost think it vas the real thing'.   
He told her some of the history of the Palace, when she asked. She was quite good at   
small talk, too. He wondered why they bothered. Surely, if they were going to fill the   
room with nothing of worth, it would be more pleasant to eat in silence?  
  
Perhaps not, he thought, as she laughed at some meaningless little joke he'd made.  
  
"Now, it is far too dark to szee the gardens, but you must show me -- you mentioned there   
is a museum in the Palace?" said Margolotta, daintily finishing her meal. "I am sure it   
vould be most edifying."  
  
"Certainly," he said, and again took her arm, and again led her through the Palace, his   
Palace, down the steps and through the throne room.   
  
The museum of the Palace was small, and devoted mostly to portraits, sculptures, and   
important documents of previous Patricians. Margolotta was particularly interested in a   
painting of The Death Of Lord Winder; it took her but two minutes to find the dark black   
shadow, sword-in-hand, which Vetinari had asked Leonard to "add" to the painting   
recently. There was a striking bust of Mad Lord Snapcase; it was unnerving how one eye   
appeared to follow you around the room, while the other appeared to turn crazily in its   
socket.   
  
There were several framed letters, behind the bust. Margolotta looked at them with   
interest.  
  
"Snapcase's correspondence. Some of it, at any rate. I find it instructional. He was a   
master at the art of the casual letter," Vetinari said, standing behind her. "You would   
never think, to read some of them, that he was stark raving mad."  
  
"Yes...letters rarely betray our true feelings," she said. "They are so...orderly."  
  
"Do you find them so? It is far more difficult to retract or twist a statement, once it   
has been written and sent. Not, perhaps, a pure honesty, but of a sort -- one can hold a   
man to the words he's written."  
  
He wondered what he'd said that made her tense; after a moment, she sighed. "Is that vhy   
you never wrote, Havelock?"  
  
The question badly disarmed him. It had been a long time since someone asked him a   
question he wasn't expecting.   
  
Or didn't know the answer to.  
  
"I...no. No, that was not the reason. I had not thought of the honesty of the written   
word, when we first...met," he said. "Or if I had, I was not conscious of it."  
  
"That vould have been an acceptable reason, though," she said, still staring at the   
maniacally even handwriting of the late Lord Snapcase. "I could have been happy if I had   
thought it."  
  
"I am sorry I did not lie to you, then."  
  
"Oh, don't be petty, Havelock." Margolotta turned to face him.   
  
"Petty?" he asked, in a low tone.   
  
"I did not ask you to lie to me. I merely said that it vould have pleased me to know. It   
vould have been better zan thinking zat you did not write because you did not vant to."  
  
He gave her a rare smile. "Why I did or did not -- "  
  
"Do not szay it is not important. It iz important. Vhy did you not write me?"  
  
Anger overrode caution, and oh gods! When had that last happened? "What more was there to   
say?" he asked. "I was nineteen years old, Margolotta. I was and am quite human, you know.   
I have not had three hundred years in which to learn not to -- "  
  
He was ready for the swing, when it came, but not for the unearthly strength behind it.   
He could have ducked, but that would have endangered the Bust of Snapcase, and he hated   
it when people destroyed art. The ringing slap of her open hand hitting his defensively   
raised arm echoed in the tiny room.   
  
For a second, he thought she might have broken his wrist.   
  
"How dare you!" she demanded. "How dare you sztand zere in your black robes und your smug   
grin and szay zat because I vos older zan you I felt nozzing!"  
  
"You hurt me," he said, calmly, moving his hand and rubbing the heel of his palm.   
"Imagine what you could have done to my jaw with a slap like that."  
  
"You really believe zat is true, Havelock? Zat I did not feel anyzing for you?" she   
asked, heedless of his tacit warning that this was venturing into uncharted waters, and   
it was best to return to the mundane.   
  
"Come now, Margolotta. I know that you have a gothic sensibility, and it is charming in   
its place, but it was one week. Only a little over five days."  
  
"Und yet you can say to me zat you know vot I vos feeling?"  
  
He hesitated. She had a point. He had simply assumed, she'd had so many more years than   
he in which to...well, to do what she did best, which was be a vampire. She'd told him,   
back then, that the Uberwald vampires were known for their hospitality, a very specific   
brand that did indeed interest the sort of young explorer that Havelock Vetinari was   
/not/.   
  
"I had never met a man like you in centuries of life," she hissed. "For you I controlled   
my hungers and listened to your voice, I told you anyzing I knew about anyzing you   
asked. Nineteen! No vonder you rule Ankh-Morpork now! Vhen you vere a /boy/ you could   
have had vot you vanted from anyone."  
  
"I have what I wanted," he said coldly, because her words were beginning to frighten him.   
"I have my city."  
  
"Your city hasz you!" cried Margolotta. "You have nozzink, Havelock! A few books, a dog,   
a nice office, that'z not a life. That'z juszt an existence. Control is fine in its   
place, but it's just as much -- "  
  
" -- an addiction," he answered, suddenly gripping her elbow and pulling her close. "You   
think I don't know that? You think I, who have sacrificed you and everything else for the   
city, don't know that? But I don't regret it! Not one bloody minute of it!"  
  
A small portion of his mind registered that he was shouting, and in this palace someone   
almost certainly could hear him. Another small portion registered that it was ridiculous   
to have a lovers' quarrel under the watchful eyes of several mad former Patricians, and   
this ought to be taken up elsewhere, and at another time.   
  
He ignored both.  
  
"Damn you, Margolotta! You come here after all this time and you do /this/ to me? I had   
excuses then! I was young, I was stupid -- "  
  
"You vere attracted to me. You sztill are," she answered, and suddenly he saw the calm   
that he normally had, in her eyes. He froze.  
  
This is how they feel, he thought. Everyone who's looked across the desk at me since I   
became Patrician. This is how all of them feel. Like a thunderstorm that's suddenly come   
face to face with the black apocalypse. Like an ant on a battlefield. When you feel the   
rage well up in you and you look into those eyes and they're desperately, terrifyingly   
calm and knowing...  
  
"You veren't stupid. You've never been young. You vere in love, Havelock. Zese things do   
happen," she said softly. "It's not my fault ve only had a veek together. Another month   
or two and you'd have figured it out."  
  
He closed his eyes, rested his forehead against hers. "Then why didn't you write to me,   
Margolotta? The roads go both ways."  
  
"I didn't know it either, you arrogant bastard," she answered. He could feel her breath   
on his cheeks. "How vas I to know I loved you? You barely gave me time to think. And then   
there vere the years, there vos the politics, there vos too much to do. For both of us."  
  
"I belong to the city. You know that. You wouldn't be happy. Neither of us would."  
  
"You said that tventy-five years ago. You vere frightened then, too."  
  
"Frightened? You talk to me about frightened, Margolo -- " he had to stop. She used to   
try that trick on him when he was getting pompous...  
  
He had to stop because she was kissing him.   
  
And then he was glad he'd stopped, because he was drowning in her kiss.  
  
And then he didn't want to stop at all. For anything.   
  
Even for his city.  
  
He felt her sharp incisors graze his lips, and her body press itself to him, oh so   
familiar. She felt so small when he put his arms around her like this -- a woman composed   
entirely of curves and soft surfaces, but solid as rock underneath.   
  
"Havelock," Margolotta murmured, into his mouth. "Vot vere you sayink?"  
  
"I don't recall," he answered, distracted by the feeling of her hands on his chest, his   
jaw. "It can't have been very important..."  
  
***  
  
Endnote: And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, you are faced with one of life's little decisions:  
virtue or vice?  
  
If you choose virtue, you may go directly to Chapter 6, when it is posted in some little  
while.  
  
If you choose vice -- I heartily recommend it, in general -- you may seek out the NC17-  
rated "Naughty Insert" to the Patrician's Papers, located at skyehawke.com. I would have   
posted it here, but there's that pesky little no-porn rule ff.net has. And a good and   
sensible thing it is, I'm sure. (Isn't it funny how I can say that with a straight face?) 


	6. On Servitude

Credit to Mary for the Patrician's thoughts on fire; I never knew I was that deep :D  
  
I don't believe I ever thanked Mercator for her beta, so I'm thanking her now; in   
  
this chapter her steadying hand begins to appear quite strongly, as we work towards  
  
eventually bringing forth a plot.   
  
Another "Author's note on the Editor's Note": For the reasons Havelock Vetinari did   
  
not keep servants in private life, see "The Birthday Present". I hate to be self-  
  
referential, but there you are.  
  
THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
Now that the lilacs are in bloom  
  
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room  
  
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.  
  
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know  
  
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";  
  
(slowly twisting the lilac stalks)  
  
--TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER SIX: ON SERVITUDE  
  
Editor's Note: It is well known that Vetinari, who may at the best of times have been  
  
considered an iconoclast, did not keep servants in his private home during the years   
  
before his rise to power. Such things are not entirely unknown. Many lords have depended   
  
entirely on the loyalty of a single retainer, or the secrecy of an elderly family   
  
servant. To have none at all, however, may be considered slightly strange.  
  
In this case, it is doubtful that this is, as some have suggested, an unusual form of   
  
paranoia. Once installed in the Oblong Office, Vetinari often depended implicitly on   
  
servants, agents, and spies. He never appeared to be suspicious of the impressively  
  
large staff at the Palace, and rarely fired a clerk or servant without sufficient   
  
cause.*  
  
---  
  
* A highly subjective term, of course, but applying in this case to thieves and   
  
saboteurs, rather than a maid who's spilled the milk.  
  
---  
  
This chapter seems to indicate that Vetinari looked on his staff not only as an integral   
  
part of his ruling power, but as a sort of experiment in social order.   
  
***  
  
It is in the nature of humanity to form structures. We invariably begin to create   
  
hierarchies and organisations, when more than three or four gather together. This is   
  
the urge of Civilisation, and if conducted properly, it is a just and commendable  
  
thing. A division of labour; a prioritisation of those things which are most important  
  
to us, such as food and shelter; a rule of law.   
  
Eventually, with these structures, comes the rule of Tradition as well, and the largest  
  
slave to the Traditional life is the nobleman. One who is well-provided for begins to   
  
develop slight quirks to assure himself that he need not worry about his overabundance of  
  
wealth in the face of the less fortunate. Soon these quirks become habits, and then   
  
crippling requirements, of the noble classes.  
  
One to be addressed here is the keeping of servants. Even a small family, with no need for   
  
a legion of people to care for them, would rather have useless employees than be looked   
  
down upon for keeping only one upstairs maid. Households do not discern the good servants   
  
from the bad, and the results are often of great interest to a student of human nature.  
  
The good servant is at once admiring and disdainful; until a man's judgement is questioned,   
  
he has no reason to defend it and no methodology for examining if it is sound. The good   
  
servant is loyal but not foolish, has little care for his pay, and works for the love of   
  
work. Such men are rare and invaluable, and should be cultivated when found. Discretion,   
  
of course, is a desirable trait, but an indiscreet servant may do much good, if his master   
  
is careful about what he reveals.   
  
To serve is a pleasurable thing, when one serves properly; we are all employed in the   
  
household of the human race, and while many may serve badly, there are some few who   
  
are worth the time taken to find them. They cannot be paid highly enough, and therefore,   
  
generally, are not paid at all. Such is the tragedy of human existence.  
  
***  
  
Drumknott was not a drinking man. He admired Vetinari greatly, and strove to be like  
  
him, in his own little ways; he therefore did not drink, though he liked other people  
  
to.  
  
Which was why the kitchen staff were terrified. The clerk had gone up to bring the  
  
Patrician his breakfast -- dry toast and some sliced cheese, garnished with a pile  
  
of sausages because Cook believed that one day he would eventually try them, out of  
  
sheer desperation. He'd returned not five minutes later, made up another tray with  
  
tea, a couple of muffins, and some jam, and taken that up, too. Then he'd come back  
  
down, sat down in a corner, and calmly poured himself a small glass of brandy.  
  
One of the scullery maids, who'd lost the draw, sidled up to him.  
  
"That's Lord Vetinari's brandy, that is," she said, somewhat reproachfully. Drumknott  
  
gave her a weary look.  
  
"I know," he said.   
  
She scurried back to the other side of the room, where the staff were watching the   
  
Patrician's secretary anxiously.   
  
"Erm..." said Cook, hesitantly crossing the floor. "Drumknott old man..."  
  
"Yes?" Drumknott asked, through dazed eyes.  
  
"His Lordship all right?"  
  
"Hm?"   
  
"Is his Lordship all right?" Cook repeated.  
  
"Ye...well..." Drumknott swallowed. "The Patrician is...that is..."  
  
He was a man for whom words were stock-in-trade. Having run out of them, he panicked.  
  
Fortunately, his Clerking instincts overrode the clangings in his brain.  
  
"The Patrician is not to be disturbed!" he said defiantly. "No one is to go into his  
  
office or chambers until further notice. He's...he's ill," he finished lamely. People  
  
were staring. "Nothing serious. A...a headache."  
  
The maids looked at each other worriedly. Drumknott drained his glass and stood up.  
  
He caught the eye of Ellen, who oversaw the domestic side of the Palace -- something   
  
of his counterpart, outside of politics. She was a discreet woman (she had to be)  
  
and he had to tell /someone/.   
  
"Just a word with you, Ellen, please..." he said, taking her by the arm and hauling   
  
her out into the hallway. He led her along until he was sure they were alone, then  
  
dropped his voice to almost a whisper.  
  
"The Patrician's still in bed!" he hissed.  
  
"Well, you said he was -- "  
  
"With a woman!"  
  
Ellen gaped. "But he's never -- "  
  
"I know!"  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"I put his breakfast on the table and went and got some for her, what was I supposed  
  
to do?"  
  
"You went in twice?"  
  
"I had to! It'd've been rude not to!"  
  
Ellen giggled. "Ruder than walking in on the ruler of Ankh-Morpork after he's spent  
  
the night making passionate -- "  
  
"Stop it!" Drumknott cried. "Don't talk like that!"  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
"I think it's...Ellen, I'm sure it's Lady Margolotta."  
  
"The vampire?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
She laughed again. Ellen was somewhat older than Drumknott; she'd worked in other   
  
great houses before the Palace, and had grown used to the fact that even the   
  
Patrician might at some point desire a private life.  
  
"She's not going to want much breakfast then, is she?" Ellen asked.   
  
Drumknott looked crushed.   
  
"I don't know, you try to do the polite thing, you work hard and take his breakfast up  
  
to him for nearly six years and then one day there's a woman in his bed."  
  
Ellen patted his shoulder. "You did just fine, Rufus. You did exactly what I would   
  
have done. It was very considerate of you." Curiosity, bred into her Ankh-Morpork  
  
soul, got the better of her. "Rufus..."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Were they...well, I mean..."  
  
"I didn't look," he answered primly. "They had blankets." He paused. He was also an   
  
Ankh-Morpork native. "He looked rather happy," he said.  
  
"Did she?"  
  
"Ellen!"  
  
"I'm only asking."  
  
"I couldn't tell."  
  
"Oh /really/."  
  
"Listen, we can't let anyone know."  
  
"Why not? Lordship obviously doesn't seem to mind word getting out -- all right, Rufus,   
  
it was only a joke. Listen, you clear his schedule and I'll make sure you're told when   
  
he does wake up. About time he had a little fun. If he'd asked me, I'd have -- " she   
  
broke off, because now was obviously not the time to tease Rufus Drumknott any further.   
  
"You run along and handle his morning appointments. I'm sure he'll call for you when   
  
he's ready for you, he always does."  
  
Drumknott, brightened considerably by this thought, wandered off towards the Oblong   
  
Office.   
  
***  
  
Havelock Vetinari overslept.  
  
He knew it as soon as he woke up, knew in the way that compulsive early-risers always   
  
do. It wasn't much longer before he knew that he was not alone in his bed.   
  
His right hand was free, dangling over the edge of the mattress. He raised it, quite  
  
slowly, and covered his face with it.   
  
When he looked out through a crack between his fingers, the world was still there,   
  
still real.   
  
Damn.  
  
He was lying on his back, so he took advantage of the position to stare up at the   
  
ceiling while he gathered his thoughts. It had been a long time since it had been   
  
necessary to actually gather them. Usually they were just there, all the time. Thoughts.  
  
Lying around in his head, waiting to be used. Now they were scattered. Several of them  
  
were devoting themselves entirely to self-congratulation, while several more were   
  
throwing rocks at the others. Tribal wars were beginning in his subconscious.  
  
He was not wearing any clothing.  
  
Vetinari thought in corkscrews, and this was a little one, but it was still a big step  
  
towards re-organising his life around a few recent events. It is much easier to refer to  
  
oneself as "not wearing clothing" than to call oneself "naked". He wasn't sure why this  
  
was so, but it was.   
  
Margolotta, who was also not-wearing-clothing, was asleep, curled against him, her face   
  
pressed into the hollow of his neck. One of her arms rested on his chest, fingers   
  
touching his collarbone. His left arm was crooked behind her, wrapped around her   
  
shoulders.   
  
All right, then. This wasn't so unusual. People woke up this way every day. Well, not   
  
with Margolotta, obviously, but with someone or other. And it wasn't as though it was the   
  
first time he and Margolotta had woken up this way. The first time in decades, but not   
  
the first time ever.   
  
He turned his head, squinting a little. There was a breakfast tray -- two breakfast   
  
trays -- one with tea things on it. Drumknott had been here, then. But Drumknott was   
  
circumspect. He would arrange things. At least the blankets on the bed preserved some   
  
amount of decency.   
  
He ought to...he ought to be doing something. He had a city to run. But it was so   
  
difficult to get out of this bed...  
  
All right then. Just untangle yourself.   
  
He slowly slid his arm out from under the sleeping Margolotta, and gently lifted her head   
  
onto the pillow with the deftness of an Assassin*. So strange, how her face hadn't really   
  
changed at all, even in his memory.   
  
---  
  
* Though with considerably less murderous intent.  
  
---  
  
Good, now, let's find that dressing gown...  
  
Dangling from a hook on the wall, where it usually was. He crept out of the bed entirely,   
  
and pulled it on. At some point, possibly, he ought to locate actual clothing, but that   
  
could wait.  
  
Tea.   
  
His hands were steady as he removed the cover from the pot of hot water, dropped the   
  
infuser into it, swirled gently. Margolotta gave a sleepy sigh while he was inspecting   
  
the rest of the tray.   
  
Poor Drumknott. He'd brought up enough food for both of them. He really would have to see   
  
about getting the man a raise.  
  
"Tea?" he asked, without turning round. He poured two cups, and spooned sugar into one of   
  
them, adding a little milk to the other to cool it.   
  
"Please," came Margolotta's drowsy reply.  
  
When he turned, he almost dropped the cups. She was propped up on one elbow, looking at  
  
him through loose tendrils of hair, a small smile on her face, blankets rumpled around  
  
her hips. She was, in fact, the most beautiful thing he could ever remember seeing.   
  
Unfamiliar thoughts began to race through his head, setting fire to the huts of the   
  
thoughts he'd so carefully gathered a few minutes previous. She shifted to sit upright,  
  
pulling some of the bedclothes with her, and accepted the sweetened tea calmly.  
  
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, as she tried the tea.  
  
"Very. Have you been avake long?"  
  
"Not at all." He sipped contemplatively. She smiled, and reached out to touch his cheek.   
  
He fought the urge to draw back; he was unused to caresses. When her fingers finally did   
  
stroke his face, he leaned into it, momentarily.   
  
"Ve must never deal vith things except as they are, remember?" she said gently.  
  
"Very well," he murmured. "You actually took away my control, Margolotta. Do you know   
  
the last time it happened? The last time I didn't want to give it up and someone came   
  
and took it anyway?"  
  
"Too long, I think," she said, with another laugh.  
  
"And now, Margo," said Vetinari, between sips of tea, "Will you tell me why you came to   
  
Ankh-Morpork? No," he held up a hand, calmly, when she opened her mouth to protest.  
  
"I have been remarkably even-handed in our dealings, Margolotta. I expect nothing less  
  
from you."  
  
"Iz everyzing to be about politics?" she asked plaintively.  
  
"Everything /is/ about politics, whether we like it or not."  
  
She was silent for a moment. Then, finally, "There vos...a man."  
  
He lifted an eyebrow.   
  
"Antonei Zhalien."  
  
"A man you killed."  
  
She gave him a feral smile. "One of zem. To be fair, he did try to kill me first."  
  
"Some people have no sense of timing," he said.  
  
"Vos that a joke?"  
  
"Very nearly. Go on."  
  
"He had an infant son. I did not know zis, or I should have killed the child too.   
  
Not anymore," she said contemplatively, "but dead mens' children should not be allowed   
  
to survive."  
  
"Oh dear."  
  
"Yes. Zis grown infant son -- he vould not try anyzing in Ubervald, I am too powerful   
  
there. Und in Ankh-Morpork I vould have some protection. I had hoped he vould attempt   
  
somezing here, and ve could end it. The law is a bit more formal about zis sort of   
  
thing than the Lore."  
  
"You hoped to depend upon the Watch?"  
  
"Ach, Vimes dislikes me, but he vould be personally offended if I vere killed in   
  
his city."  
  
"That does not, however," he pointed out, "do you much good."  
  
"No. But he iz not the only one who iz...defensive of his city."  
  
They looked at each other for a long minute.   
  
"I've overslept. I have business to attend to," Vetinari announced. He didn't move.  
  
"Ah yes. The running of the city. Ve politicians, Havelock, ve understand each other.   
  
Ve vill talk later. Go."   
  
"I don't want to," he said, half rebellious, half apologetic. "Not right now."  
  
"I know. But you must. I shall sleep, I think, a while longer," she added.  
  
He forced himself not to think as he washed and dressed, forced his mind to focus only on   
  
the little mundane duties of the morning routine. It had the desired effect; he did not   
  
brood, nor did he linger. Before he knew it, he found himself in the Oblong Office,   
  
sifting through a pile of paper that had been laid down on his desk sometime in the   
  
night. He was rather proud of this.  
  
After about ten minutes, a rather harassed-looking Drumknott entered, carrying another   
  
pile.  
  
"Good morning, sir," he said, remarkably evenly. "Glad to see the headache's gone away."  
  
"The headache, Drumknott, is still asleep. I imagine she'll find her own way out,   
  
however."  
  
Drumknott looked shocked. "Sir, I didn't mean to call -- "  
  
Vetinari waved his hand. "Neither did I. A turn of phrase, nothing more. I see the city   
  
has not crumbled to dust, despite my...headache."  
  
"No, sir. I've cleared your morning schedule, except for Commander Vimes. He's been   
  
waiting about ten minutes."  
  
"Excellent. Keep him five more, and then I shall be ready to see him."  
  
Drumknott nodded. "My lord...I would like to say, sir..."  
  
Vetinari looked at him. He Looked at him, really.  
  
"The staff don't know, sir. But we all like Lady Margolotta," Drumknott blurted. He   
  
looked horrified at himself, but plunged onward. "Will you be having Lady Margolotta to   
  
dinner again tonight, my lord?"  
  
The Look remained. Finally, a small smile crept over his face.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't know, Drumknott. Lady Margolotta may have other plans. Please send   
  
someone round to the embassy with an invitation, however. Perhaps a bit...later in the   
  
day."  
  
"Yes sir," Drumknott said. And fled.  
  
***  
  
Vimes, when he was shown in, saluted, and looked vaguely worried. And a little more than   
  
vaguely angry.  
  
"Good morning, Commander. Sorry to have kept you waiting," Vetinari said, indicating that   
  
he was not, in fact, sorry in the slightest. "Our weekly meeting is not scheduled for   
  
today, is it? I was sure it was on Monday."  
  
"Thought I'd best bring the news up," Vimes said. "Lady Margolotta's gone missing."  
  
"Has she?"  
  
"Almost twelve hours now, sir."  
  
"You don't seem too concerned, Commander."  
  
"She's a vampire," Vimes said simply. "You don't seem too concerned, either."  
  
"I am sure Lady Margolotta can take care of herself, as you say."  
  
"We'd like to question the Palace staff. Last person who saw her was Carrot, leaving   
  
her off at the front gate. She didn't come out again," Vimes added. "I've got Detritus   
  
down in the scullery asking questions now, but nobody wants to say anything."  
  
"Perhaps there is nothing to say."  
  
"When did you see her last?"  
  
"We had dinner together, which ended around eight-thirty or so," Vetinari said, hoping   
  
that Vimes -- who was unused to the Patrician lying about women, though well accustomed   
  
to him lying about anything else -- wouldn't notice that her leaving the Palace was   
  
implied, rather than announced. "Have you been keeping tabs on her, Vimes?"  
  
"She's a diplomatic ambassador in a foreign city."  
  
"That does not answer my question."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Are you spying on the Uberwaldean vampire?"  
  
"There's a lot of them here, now."  
  
"Lady Margolotta."  
  
"Sir."  
  
Vetinari sighed. "You know, it is not easy for a man to carry on a one-sided   
  
conversation, but I believe, with your help, I may have finally mastered it. If I were   
  
ever to be locked away without intellectual stimulation, I should simply pretend you were   
  
there, and I am sure I could entertain myself for hours." He met Vimes' eyes. "Lady   
  
Margolotta has her own bodyguards -- "  
  
"An Igor and a couple of -- "  
  
"She has her own bodyguards, and she is under my /personal/ protection. Leave her alone,   
  
Vimes. Do not have her followed, do not have the gargoyles keep an eye on her, and do not   
  
have the Uberwaldean embassy watched. It is a waste of your time."  
  
"Did you hear what I said? She's missing!"  
  
"Good morning, gentlemen!"   
  
Vimes whirled as Margolotta entered, through the anteroom doorway. "Such a promisingly  
  
pleasant day, Lord Vetinari! I though I vould come see the grounds today. Sir Samuel,   
  
alvays a pleasure to see you."  
  
"We've been looking for you all night!" Vimes snarled.  
  
"I vish you'd found me," Margolotta answered. "I got terribly lost. I ended up in some   
  
ghastly tavern vhen I couldn't find my vay home. I spent zer night, too, and I can tell   
  
you, paying anyzing for von of those beds is paying too much."  
  
Vimes turned back to Vetinari, who spread his hands in an innocent gesture.  
  
"Good to know the city Vatch is so diligent, however. I shall certainly call upon you in   
  
the future if I lose my purse," Margolotta continued. Vimes looked like he was ready to   
  
either slap her or accuse her of something, so Vetinari took the floor.  
  
"Was there anything else, Sir Samuel? No? Then I think you had best call off the search.   
  
Good day."  
  
Vimes saluted, scowled, and stalked out.  
  
"Ah, Lady Margolotta, I -- " he broke off abruptly. The door had closed, and Margolotta   
  
had moved with unerring and uncanny speed to kiss him. It was not a pleasant kiss of   
  
greeting. It threatened him with suffocation.  
  
"Good morning," she said, when they'd finished.   
  
"Yes, quite -- "  
  
She didn't really let him get much in edgewise before the second kiss. Or the third.   
  
Around about the fifth he registered that this was probably not something that ought to   
  
be happening in the Oblong Office.   
  
"Margo," he said. "Margolotta, I have work -- "  
  
Hands on his jaw, in his hair.  
  
"I...work...the city -- "  
  
Warm curves in his arms.   
  
"Listen to me -- "  
  
The collar of his robes undone.   
  
"No -- /oh/..."  
  
Tongue, a tongue in quite an inappropriate place --   
  
"I can't...just..." he finally managed to pull back enough to grasp her by the shoulders.   
  
"I..." he waved a hand at the papers on his desk. "I can't, I have...work to do..."  
  
She reached around him, pressing close as she did so, and he closed his eyes in an effort   
  
to keep some modicum of self-restraint. When he opened them, she was holding a tedious   
  
report from one of the under-clerks between her thumb and third finger. Still holding it,   
  
she snapped the fingers. It burst into flames.   
  
He smiled, and pressed his palms around the burning paper, putting out the fire.   
  
I'm not the one who goes up like a thatched roof around fire, he thought. Remember that,   
  
Margolotta...  
  
"Damn the paperwork," she said softly.  
  
"One hour, Margolotta. Just give me an hour and I'll be finished here. I'll meet you in   
  
the garden -- " sudden silence while she kissed him again. "I promise, only give me   
  
an hour."  
  
"Von hour," she said, agreeably. "Und if I find you still here, I shall be forced to use   
  
feminine viles."  
  
"What have you been using up until now?" he asked. She laughed.   
  
"Von hour," she repeated. She was gone before he felt he could conceivably catch his   
  
breath. 


	7. Metaphors

Oh my god, the thing's finally got a plot.  
  
All of Vetinari's metaphors are drawn from Canon, and all except the prawns from "Guards! Guards!". I forgot how much fun he is in that book. Emperor Chordian's wisdom is stolen from a story told about Augustus Caesar in Suetonius' "The Twelve Caesars".   
  
And may I say, there's a definite baby plot bunny in this. I mean, who wouldn't want to see Vetinari and Vimes in a fistfight? (other than Drumknott, Carrot, Sybil, and the pair themselves?) /Who/ on earth would win?   
  
Fic challenge, anyone? Mwahahaha....  
  
Special thanks to Tien for the reminder that Vimes' grasp of foreign language is weak, and the "eagle" remark :)  
  
THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
I keep my countenance,   
  
I remain self-possessed  
  
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired  
  
Reiterates some worn-out common song  
  
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden  
  
Recalling things that other people have desired.  
  
--TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER SEVEN: METAPHORS  
  
Editor's Note:  
  
Havelock Vetinari, as a man, was particularly fond of metaphors, and quite imaginative when it came to their use. He has variously referred to the city of Ankh-Morpork as a clock, a machine, a topiary, a gyroscope, and a Great Rolling Sea of Evil. He has spoken of Clacks technology in terms of prawns, and the City Watch, before its expansion, as an appendix. He has been heard to remark that one must handle a metaphor carefully; they can kill a man if used improperly.   
  
In chapter seven he seems to have succumbed to the temptation to employ metaphoric devices to his heart's content; rather, one single metaphoric device, the Dragon. It is somewhat taken as a given that this chapter was written during his tenure in the Palace dungeon, at the time of the brief and busy rule of the only dragon ever to be crowned king.   
  
***  
  
Dragons, as a colleague once had reason to remark, are a metaphor of human existence. And as if that wasn't enough, they are also a great big hot blowing flapping thing.   
  
Of course, we are speaking here of Draco Nobilis, the noble dragon that no longer inhabits our sphere of existence. but let us consider, as long as we find ourselves upon the subject, the Vulgaris breed also, or common swamp dragon.  
  
The noble dragon bears many likenesses to the human romantic mind, and indeed, if one were to summon a dragon, one might say that it would be a dragon of the mind -- of the fantasy. A dragon with all the petty ambition, or dangerous honesty, of the man who summoned it, wrapped in scales and claws and flame ducts. A large, beautiful thing, but without regard for law, either of common physics or of human civilisation. A viciously merciless predator, sleeping on a bed of greed.   
  
The swamp dragon, on the other hand, is a sad case. Domesticated, they are entirely dependent upon humans; even the most stable of breeds has a tendency to defensive explosion*.   
  
---  
  
* Editor's Note: Vetinari obviously assumes that the reader understands the evolutionary physiology of the swamp dragon; ie, its tendency to self-destruction is a defence mechanism on behalf of the species, and not the dragon currently laminated to your ceiling.  
  
---  
  
They amble through the world trying not to eat anything that might cause premature expiration; their life is spent avoiding the opportunity to experience anything more than pleasant boredom and, every few months, the opportunity to breed.   
  
Draw your own conclusions.   
  
It seems strange to think that a dragon of fantasy should also be more cunning and vicious than a sensible, real, domestic swamp dragon. And indeed, why any intelligent, almost political creature should devote its entire existence to the acquisition of gold and beautiful young women -- however briefly, in the latter case -- is something of a mystery.  
  
It would be an intriguing experiment, would it not, to mold the cunning and fantasy of the noble dragon with the sensible, domestic, and one might say explosively selfless attitudes of the swamp dragon. Although it may be said that a twenty-ton dragon, exploding in any civilised area, is probably not the best of ideas. Still, to temper a vicious sensibility with the more common desires for stability and peace is a difficult thing, and for a human, a constant struggle.   
  
It would be much easier if there were only two breeds of people, and one could tell them apart at a glance.   
  
Still, such is not the world we live in.   
  
***  
  
Margolotta had probably needed the hour as much as he had; she'd gone back to the Embassy, and changed out of the dreadfully flowered dress, into a far more sensible one for a walk in the gardens. She had, however, retained the sun-hat; it was probably a necessity, for her.  
  
Surely the city could survive an hour without his supervision. After all, it'd survived centuries without him. Not very well, it was true, and probably not for much longer, but he had a firm grasp on it now, and could afford sixty minutes of freedom from office.  
  
Couldn't he?  
  
She gave him a bright, cheerful smile when he appeared on the grounds, and tactfully took his arm. There were guards about the place, after all, and servants, and all kinds of concealed eyes. She understood the need, at least for now, for discretion. He was the ruler of the city, and his life was not his own.   
  
We politicians, she'd said. Yes; she understood. Curse her, she understood.  
  
They didn't speak much; both sensed that, unlike yesterday, there was no need to fill the world with noise today. The things they'd been covering with meaningless conversation were no longer very well covered. Memory, and a sort of yearning for the old feeling of being students of one another, and the idea that perhaps rather than being students, they could now be equals without fear of the other's power. He would occasionally point out some especially depressing aspect of the landscaping, and caught her by the arm before she slipped into the hoho; in a split second, both were floating about six inches above   
  
the ground.  
  
"Put us down, Margolotta," he said quietly. She smiled, and kissed him, and he felt his feet on solid ground again. That was probably allegorical, he thought. Metaphoric, at any rate.  
  
"Do you know," she said, when they were walking again, "Ve have been discovering some very interesting things about beetotal vampires?"  
  
"Oh yes?"  
  
"Yes! As you can see, ve are able to tolerate sunlight rather better than before. Though of course, stronk light still hurts us."  
  
"I've seen Mr. Chriek's vanishing act," he said absently.   
  
"Indeed. Und vhile ve still retain various...manipulative talents, of course, other problems have arisen. Vampires who do not drink human blood, they can...vell, they can die."  
  
"Die? Do you mean, they /age/?" he asked. He had not had reports of this.  
  
"No, no. But it is possible to...to vish to die, und to die. From things other than zer usual," she added. "Ve've lost two so far. They just didn't have the vill to survive. A carriage accident, very tragic. They could have healed up, but they veren't very interested. People get bored vith life, apparently."  
  
"Do they?"  
  
"So I'm told."  
  
"Interesting," he said. He felt a vague concern for the direction this conversation was taking.   
  
"You, also, vill die," Margolotta murmured. "Perhaps vhen you do...I vill come to see zer monument they vill raise..."  
  
"Margo, stop this instant."  
  
"I could szimply sztand zere...und die," she added.  
  
"I asked you -- "  
  
"Fade avay into dust. It vould be very...gothic, as you say."  
  
"Why are you telling me this?"  
  
She gave him another sunny smile. "Oh, just letting my mind vander."  
  
"Don't," he said shortly. They came around a curve in the path, and began making their way back towards the entrance to the grounds, following the ornamental trout pond. "Perhaps we should discuss our situation," he continued, after a while.   
  
"Vot is there to discuss?" she asked.  
  
"You know what there is to discuss. I'd like to know how long you will be staying in the city. And, incidentally, if you are planning on accepting my dinner invitation. If you expect me to return your visit, I'm afraid you're rather out of luck. I suppose, in a year or two, I could arrange things so that the city temporarily did not explode into disaster in my absence -- "  
  
"Are you really that important to the city, Havelock?" she asked.  
  
"Yes," he replied, without pride. "I am. The problem with taking a wild city and taming it, is that you take an object balancing on the blade of a knife, and balance it on the point. Stability requires more risk than chaos, and therefore it is more dangerous to leave a stabilised city than a chaotic one. It has further to fall."  
  
"All too true. But have no fear, I have no desire for you to come to Uberwald. As for how long I am to stay in the city...I do not know, yet. Uberwald, unlike Ankh-Morpork, does not require a fine controlled touch. Subtlety is lost on most verevolves, I'm afraid. And most vampires, for that matter." Her hand, resting on his arm, slid down to cover his fingers. "As for your invitation, I vould invite you to the Embassy insztead. Ve can't have your staff constantly in uproar. I'm sure ve could rustle up some valnuts."  
  
"Don't you think -- " he began, then stopped. There were guards standing at the entrance to the grounds. More than there ought to have been. He could see Vimes, and another officer holding someone by the arm.   
  
Oh, dear. It had happened, then.  
  
"Morning, sir," Vimes called, as Vetinari disentangled his arm from Margolotta's, and walked up the slight incline to reach the knot of City Watch officers. "You were right."  
  
Drumknott and an under-clerk stood behind him, hovering anxiously. Vimes put his hands on his belt. Next to him, Corporal Ping tightened his grip on Margolotta's Igor.   
  
"Margolotta von Uberwald, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit robbery, abetment of theft, abetment of criminal trespass, and espionage," Vimes said, his tone entirely even and, Vetinari noticed, conspicuously free of smugness. Guards moved to stand on either side of the vampire.  
  
"I don't understand," she said. "Vot is going on? Igor, vot have you told zem?"  
  
"All he needs to, I'm afraid," Drumknott said. "We put a clerk on guard in your office like you said, sir, and sent a message down to the Yard. He showed up not ten minutes after you'd left. Through one of the...less-used passages," he added. Vetinari examined Igor.  
  
"Yes, Igors are very good at...less-used passages," he replied. "I'm very sorry, Margolotta. I don't like deceiving people*. But I like being deceived even less."  
  
---  
  
* This was, technically speaking, a little white lie; it wasn't that he enjoyed deception, but he would admit that occasionally it was greatly satisfying.  
  
---  
  
"Havelock, vot are you talking about?" Margolotta asked. The guards weren't touching her; they were sensible men, and knew exactly what their job was worth.   
  
"You'd come to Ankh-Morpork because the Patrician /asked/?" Vetinari said. "Because you needed /defending/? I am many things, Margolotta, but a fool I am not. A good opportunity for you, wasn't it?"  
  
"Probably wanted to lay hold of the Sto Plains trade route plans," Vimes said. "They'll cut right through Uberwald. Or maybe get a peek at some of those Genuan diplomatic letters that I happen to know you don't have."  
  
"We caught Igor going through your desk," Drumknott added. He looked as though his faith in the world had been restored.  
  
"It's not true! Havelock, tell zem! I vould not do zomezing like zis!" Margolotta said, managing not to shout.   
  
"Tell them? Who do you think told them to set the trap in the first place?" Vetinari asked. "I am not a man who is lightly toyed with, Margolotta. Vampires work by subterfuge. Whether it is blood or diplomatic secrets that you steal."  
  
"I've got a couple of Uberwaldeans on the force," Vimes said. "One of 'em's got a saying -- I think the phrase is Kvealin bostrovaki kre kvea* -- "  
  
---  
  
* Literally translated, "you are stepping on my eagle", but if Vimes' pronunciation had been better, it would have been "A well-dressed whore is still a whore". The spirit was willing, at any rate.  
  
---  
  
Vetinari was in front of him faster than anyone could blink, far too close for anyone's comfort, eyes inches from the Commander's.  
  
"If you say that again, Vimes," he said, in the same low, even, cultured tones he always used, "With regard to Lady Margolotta, I will personally ensure that the brief remainder of your life is filled with interesting and painful incident. She is a diplomat, not a common street thief."  
  
Several Watchmen put hands on their swords. Vimes' eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his head.  
  
"I hadn't noticed much difference between the two," he said. Vetinari moved a few inches closer, then, and against his will, Vimes stumbled backwards. He'd heard the Patrician make many threats, some more oblique than others, but he'd never seen anything other than icy cold in the man's blue eyes. Now they flared like a gas fire.   
  
Vetinari turned to Margolotta, who was staring -- whether at Vimes' rudeness or his own threat, he couldn't tell.  
  
"Igor will be taken to the cells. Lady Margolotta, I realise that if you choose to leave the city there is very little we can do to restrain you, but I would ask that you remain in your rooms at the Embassy," he said, each word like the crack of an iceberg breaking apart.  
  
"I didn't do zis!"  
  
"Investigations will proceed. The innocent have nothing to fear," Vetinari said coldly. Margolotta looked at him, pleading.   
  
Nothing. A dead wall behind those eyes.   
  
"I am not a monster," she said softly. "Ve don't do zat, ve of the Temperance League. I vill sztay. You vill see. I vill make sure you szee." She held out her arms, and the guards took them, very gingerly. "I vould like to szpeak to Otto, pleaze," she added. "He is zer only /friend/ I have in zer city," she added, looking at Igor, who looked away.  
  
"Very convincing," Vetinari added. "I will see that he is allowed to visit you. We are not barbarians."  
  
"Oh?" she asked. He stepped forward.   
  
"We do not trade love for power, Margolotta," he said softly. Only anyone observing him very closely indeed would see the small flicker of regret in his closed expression, or the sudden stillness in Margolotta's body.  
  
***  
  
While Otto was bringing a carton of fresh -- best to think of it as 'ethnic food' -- to Lady Margolotta, as well as a comforting shoulder and sympathetic ear*, her Igor also had a visitor. It surprised Vimes; he didn't think that Igor knew anyone other than the Watch's Igor, in the city.   
  
---  
  
* His own, unfortunately; he couldn't scare up any loose ones at short notice.  
  
---  
  
Vimes hated surprises. He was still angry he'd missed a perfect opportunity to punch Vetinari in the nose, when the man swept down on him during Margolotta's arrest.  
  
The dark-haired visitor spoke with an Uberwaldean accent, and so Vimes assumed that he had probably been an acquaintance from the Old Country. He let the man into the cells, and left them alone; because he wasn't a /stupid/ cop, and hated narrative convenience except when it ran his way, he left them 'alone' with Buggy Swires lurking behind a table leg, across the room.   
  
If Swires had been the sort of copper who was particularly observant, rather than the sort who was able to lift a man off his feet and slam him into a wall, he might have noticed that one of the empty shadows in the cells seemed more shadowy and empty than it ought to.  
  
"I told you Vetinari's not a fool," the young man said. "Not ven it comes to espionage, anyhow."  
  
"But enough of a fool...?"  
  
"Lady Margolotta is a veakness. I'm doing him a favour, really," the young man said. "It does him no real harm, and me a vorld of good."  
  
"I thee. And what about me?" Igor asked.  
  
"Oh, you're just a pawn, they'll give you a slap on the wrists and send you on your way. I imagine Vetinari's enraged enough to do a whole lot more against Margolotta. He might be Patrician, but he's a man, and men don't like being tricked in the bedroom."  
  
"Tho you're pleathed."  
  
"Very," the man said. "Sit tight and stick to your story, Igor. Ubervald is being taken care of. I've got to pay a few visits, and then I'll be off. Don't vorry. Vhat goes around comes around."  
  
"That'th what worrieth me," Igor said despondently.   
  
As the man left, a shadow seemed to detach itself and move across the floor. Swires, while not the /most/ observant of coppers, knew a suspiciously mobile shadow when he saw one. He kept still.  
  
A grey-clad and surprisingly muscular arm reached through the bars, picked Igor off his feet, and pulled him against the cold iron.   
  
"If you scream, you will only scream once," said a calm voice. "I want his name."  
  
Igor considered matters. There was an iron bar pressing into his nose, which would crunch quite loudly, with another few inches of pressure.  
  
"Edvard Zhalien," he said, very cautiously, distinctly not looking at the man's face. Swires watched in fascination.  
  
"Where is he staying?"  
  
"I don't -- "  
  
"Deny me again and you will be sewing your liver back in. With your toes."  
  
"It'th true. Thomewhere in the Thades," Igor added, his terror ratcheting up a notch.  
  
"He's a son of the Zhalien clan?"  
  
"Yeth!"  
  
The man sighed. Igor, wisely, said nothing. A moment later, he found himself dropped into a heap on the cell floor.  
  
"If you tell the Watch about this conversation, I will come for you," the man said. And vanished. Igor gibbered.  
  
Swires waited until a good count of three hundred before leaving the cells.   
  
***   
  
Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, stood on the roof of the Watch House, and let himself pause for thought. Up until then, everything he had done had been done on Assassins' Guild instinct.   
  
He didn't often go out over the rooftops these days. He didn't have the time, and he wasn't young anymore. Besides, it is much harder to be unnoticed when you are the Patrician of the city. After ten years of cultivating a habit of invisibility at school and during his early political days, he'd finally had to start building a presence. He'd been very good at it. It was difficult to put that presence away.  
  
But he remembered the emperor Chordian, during the time of Ankh-Morpork's military expansion, who was one of his personal heroes as a child*. Choridan had spent one day every year, dressed as a beggar, walking the streets of the Forum, where Sator Square now stood, with another man as his guide. Unusually, he hadn't /decreed/ that he would do it, either; people apparently hadn't known until he died, and his companion revealed it. Vetinari knew the value of walking among the people. So he still did occasionally venture out.   
  
---  
  
* His mother had decided a boy ought to get a good solid education in the important things before he went off to school, and hence young Havelock had a very unusual childhood indeed.   
  
---  
  
Never like this, though. Never with such purpose. Never with such unusual anger inside him.  
  
Seduced and betrayed, what did they take him for? It was the oldest diplomatic game in the books, and he knew those books by heart. He'd /written/ some of them.  
  
He had not intended for some things to happen, of course; had not intended to give in to Margolotta so soon, nor had he intended to...to feel the things he'd felt. But his rational mind ruled him, had done since he was old enough to be conscious of it, and his rational mind said that when you take a walk in the garden with a beautiful foreign diplomat, odds are your desk is being rifled.  
  
Really now. Not a fool, but that foolish? Edvard Zhalien had no idea who he was tangling with. The boy could hardly be twenty-five.   
  
He'd find out, however. Terminally. Of that, Vetinari was quite certain.  
  
Still, there were one or two things to investigate first.  
  
He knew the roof was booby-trapped in several places, as were the pipes and tiles below, leading on a direct path to the Commander's office window. Still, there were ways to get around that. He let himself down to ground level, circled, and climbed the decidedly spiky decorative railings on the floor below. A tall man, if he put his foot here...and here...and balanced /very/ carefully, would not be able to actually reach the ledge -- or if he did, for balance, he would find himself unceremoniously dumped into the shrubbery. But he could hear the office's occupants perfectly. Vimes never closed his window.   
  
He listened to Swires give his report. The gnome, like most humans, had not really paid attention to his face; he'd been too shocked at his presence to do so.   
  
He listened delightedly to Vimes' reaction.   
  
He listened to the orders being given.   
  
Vimes would scour the city for Edvard Zhalien. He would also look for the grey-clad man who abused Igor so terribly, but he wouldn't find him. Most importantly, his investigation of Margolotta herself would come to a screeching halt until he found Zhalien and the grey man.   
  
Vetinari would find Zhalien first. He would consider options then, but the most appealing one was beating the young man within an inch of his life.   
  
And /then/ he'd let Vimes have a go.  
  
He smiled grimly to himself, dropped down silently, and made his way back to the Palace.  
  
*** 


	8. The Rites of Man

Okay, I hope I've sorted out the formatting problems...we'll see soon. One more chapter after this!  
  
Ten points to anyone who spots the James Howe reference.  
  
THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
The October night comes down; returning as before  
  
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease,  
  
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door  
  
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.  
  
--TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE RITES OF MAN  
  
Editor's Note: Chapters Eight and Nine are the most difficult to place in time; coming somewhere between the brief rule of the dragon and Vetinari's death, they are the fully-realised writings of a mature statesman, and apparently, considering the goodly length of time over which they were written, are the cautious and well-measured thoughts of a man uninclined to hurry.  
  
Chapter Eight has been tentatively linked to the period right before the Assassins' Guild put Vetinari's contract into abeyance, and some scholars have determined that parts may have been written during his Lordship's brief illness from arsenic poisoning. Although his writing is as keen and intellectual as ever, there is a certain dramatic quality about some of it which has not been seen since his earliest chapters.   
  
***  
  
Concerning Truth, that which may be spoken as events dictate, but should be heard on every occasion:  
  
Man is raised in our free society to believe that he has certain rights; the right to make his own decisions, the right to trade with whom he wishes and for what, the right to worship as he pleases, to marry and procreate. But no right does he hold in as high regard as the right to be told the truth. If his version of the truth is betrayed, he will leave his wife, forswear his gods, part with his business associates, or make rash, foolish choices.   
  
A man will accept that he has been told a half-truth, a literal truth, or a lie of omission, if the end result justifies the deception; he will snarl about honour and honesty, but he will not forsake the human race because of them. Half-truths are, at any rate, preferable to lies, because they hold parts of the truth and are therefore easier to remember. But a man who believes he has a right to know the truth is a dangerous man.  
  
Because Truth is not immutable. It is not entirely knowable. And the rights of man, unfortunately, do not exist outside man's small sphere of influence. Rights are products of civilisation. The only natural right a man has is the right to an attempt at survival. And death, of course. But every living creature has the right to death.   
  
So why this born-in yearning for truth? Why do we seek to quantify the world? Without mystery, would not this be a dull, colourless life? But then some people prefer the extraordinary boredom of the known.   
  
That is one true, uncorrupting priviledge of political gamesmanship; it is never boring.  
  
We yearn for the truth because we think the truth will comfort us, but what we really want is to find a comforting statement and call it truth. The two are very different. A man well-used to understanding the way things work is never truly betrayed, because he has come to expect the essential ill-will of the world. It is a dour existence, though punctuated by the occasional surprise when a man, expected to do things typical of baser human nature, rises above to do something noble and good.   
  
The tincture of night suffuses civilisation, and we light candles to keep it at bay. We never consider that to embrace the night is to control it.   
  
***  
  
Havelock Vetinari was not a man given to chasing after people, tracking them down, or locating them through investigation. He had the City Watch for that. If he wished to speak to someone, Vetinari preferred that they come to him. It seemed less...desperate, somehow. And quite a bit less time-consuming.   
  
When he returned to the Palace he gave orders. It was what he did. Within twenty minutes, three under-clerks, all of them what he would consider "scholarship boys" -- clever youngsters from the poorer parts of the city, who could incidentally spell correctly and keep their mouths shut -- were in his office.   
  
They were used to taking orders that they didn't understand. They nodded, and looked at each other, and each made their own individual way out of the Palace, down to the Shades. There was no particular hurry. If the rumour did not spread until evening, that was fine; Zhalien could hardly expect to make a move before then, at any rate.   
  
He arranged for someone to pester Vimes, every hour or so, about the case and what he was doing about it. He took reports on how the /Times/ was covering the scandal. Apparently they'd dubbed it "Gardengate" because Margolotta had been arrested at the gates to the grounds. Vetinari thought it was mildly dramatic, but then he was not Sacharissa's copyeditor.   
  
And then he went back to his job.  
  
Very calmly.   
  
It had been years since anyone was really in earnest about trying to kill him. Poisoned candles, that was showy, and gonnes, well, that was bloodlust. It was a long time since anyone had thoughtfully and entirely selflessly wanted him dead for the sheer joy of seeing him dead, rather than for some greater political ideal. Vimes was right. It made one feel quite alive.  
  
If a man wants you dead badly enough, of course, there is no defence in the world which is effective. The only way to defend against a murderer is to discover who he is. In this case, Vetinari had the advantage of already knowing. That was something.   
  
A really determined man would get past the guards with no trouble, and into the Palace with very little. If he was clever, he'd make it as far as the fifth floor, where the Oblong Office and his chambers were, with smooth sailing. And even an Assassin-trained politician was probably not much of a match, after all these years, for a determined young Uberwaldean. The forest bred stern souls; to survive being human in Uberwald, you had to be strong.  
  
If Edvard Zhalien knew himself -- and Vetinari doubted greatly that he did -- he would know that even though he was determined to kill the Patrician, the person he really passionately wanted dead was Margolotta von Uberwald. Not just dead, but dishonourably dead, and eternally so. He wanted there to be no possibility that she would rise, and a betrayed Patrician would make very sure that his enemies, no matter how resilient, did not get a second chance to betray.   
  
Pity, really. Edvard could have been of use.  
  
The sun had set, and Vetinari was standing at the window, back to the door, when it burst open. It was a bit of drama, he knew, but sometimes drama was irresistable. Edvard Zhalien came for him with a hunter's speed and accuracy.  
  
The long, heavy walking-stick whipped out from Vetinari's side as he turned. Who needed a sword inside a stick, when you had the stick? Just as effective and far less messy. It smacked against the boy's chest, stopping him in mid-leap. There was a sudden crunch, a sound like a drowning man's gasp for air, and a thump.  
  
The head of the cane swung around and connected neatly with Zhalien's.   
  
"Igor is in the cells, and Margolotta is secure in the Embassy. You have no allies," Vetinari said calmly. Edvard Zhalien, glassy-eyed, stared up at him. "I'd call it a day, if I were you."  
  
He leapt again.   
  
This time Vetinari did not use the merciful edge-on approach; the brass cane-head slammed into the boy's neck, knocking him sideways.  
  
"You are not a spy or a patriot, Edvard, no matter how much the Baroness has paid you," Vetinari continued. "You're just a boy, and you're after the wrong man. If you stop now, you probably won't get hurt. Much."  
  
He had expected a knife at some point, but he was not quite fast enough to stop it. It cut through robe, shirt, and shoulder, cleanly, before he brought the cane up and shoved Edvard back.  
  
Yes; twenty-five was about right. An infant still when Antoni Zhalien, his father, had been killed. A thick shock of black hair, dark eyes. Standing, panting, still in a hunter's crouch, though one eye was bloodshot and bruises were beginning to form.   
  
Vetinari felt the blood flow down his arm, and realised that he was enjoying himself. This was worrying. He should have incapacitated the boy with the first blow. Instead he had let him have his go, and had...well, he'd /sneered/ at him.   
  
He was enjoying making a wreck of the youngster. At his own personal risk.   
  
First beat him within an inch of his life...and then let Vimes have a go...  
  
This was not the Vetinari way.   
  
He shook his head and moved quickly when Edvard sliced again -- dodging, throwing the cane, and grasping both wrists with his hands. He pushed Edvard against the window. The knife clattered to the floor.   
  
"Tell me," he said, in Edvard's ear as the boy struggled to free himself. "Look out the window and tell me what you see, boy."  
  
"Your end," the boy replied, and tried to butt his head backwards. Vetinari dodged.   
  
"One day," he said agreeably. "But not today. A personal vendetta, Zhalien? Supported by the good Baroness and her fortune?"  
  
"That vampire murdered my father."  
  
"Your father was a vampire hunter -- "  
  
"A historian!"  
  
"As a hobby, perhaps. He came after her in cold blood. She gave me his book, you know. Antonei Zhalien, the last man who tried to kill her. As a warning to me."  
  
"Son of a bitch!"  
  
"Easy, boy. You waited a remarkably long time to have your try. She has too many allies in Uberwald, eh? But in Ankh-Morpork, especially after setting her up as a spy...she has no one." Vetinari considered things. "Well. Almost no one."  
  
"I'll kill you, old man."  
  
"Oh, I very much doubt that. I'm sure you wanted to, when you heard the rumour. Margolotta von Uberwald, spy and seductress, pardoned because of diplomatic immunity? You must have seen red. You should have simply killed her, if you were suicidally bent. Strategy never works at times like this, and not against me. You /certainly/ should have gone after her before you came for me."  
  
"I did," said Zhalien. And laughed.  
  
Havelock Vetinari had a moment of temporal uncertainty.  
  
His body, acting without instructions from his brain, slammed Zhalien's face directly through the glass window, and snapped his neck.  
  
At least, that was what he was sure had happened. He was therefore mildly surprised to discover that, after a few confused seconds, instead he had neatly applied pressure to a very important vein in the back of the head, which caused unconsciousness fairly rapidly.   
  
All control begins with the self.  
  
He walked swiftly to the doorway. He never put guards on his office door, and no-one had been about. He picked up the speaking tube, and made a few requests.  
  
Drumknott arrived, carrying a crossbow, around the same time Ellen did, carrying bandages.   
  
"Ah. Good," Vetinari said. He was back in his chair; he didn't feel that was the dramatic thing to do, but the blood loss convinced him it was rather the wise thing to do. "Ellen, my arm, if you would be so kind. Drumknott, summon the Watch, would you? I'm sure they'll want to meet Mr. Zhalien."  
  
Drumknott, for the second time that day, had the sensation that perhaps life would have been easier if he'd been a priest like his mother wanted.  
  
***  
  
Night had well and truly fallen. There was no moon.   
  
This was, Vetinari thought, appropriate, though also mildly worrying; perhaps the influx of Uberwaldeans into the city was causing Ankh-Morpork, also, to develop a psychotropic landscape. He was not having with lightning flashes every time someone did something maniacally evil; for one thing, it'd never /stop/.  
  
No doubt Zhalien had wanted Vetinari to kill him. That would be scandal at the least and murder at the most. Vicious murder, too. But now Zhalien was going to live to tell his story to the Watch. Sooner or later. Vimes had a way of making even the most reluctant, honour-bound wretch talk. And Igor was certainly not all that honour-bound.  
  
He hadn't spoken of Zhalien's promise that he'd gone for Margolotta first.  
  
He didn't really believe it.  
  
But he'd vanished from the office, nonetheless, as soon as Ellen was finished with the bandage. And come here.  
  
The Uberwaldean embassy was a stark, imposing building, which seemed taller than it actually was. Only one window was lit -- that would be the guards on Margolotta's room. They gave him no trouble. If he did not want to be seen, he was not seen; even if he was, he was the Patrician.   
  
Margolotta's room was pitch black, too dark; the darkness that is conspicuous for its absence of light. He closed the door behind him, locking in the gloom.  
  
"Margo," he said quietly.  
  
No answer.  
  
"I am sorry, Margolotta," he continued, moving forward. Forward, but slowly. "It was necessary to say what I said. Else how could we have drawn Zhalien out?"  
  
Still silence? Or the whisper of breath, indrawn to speak? Too quiet to tell.  
  
"I know you understood me. Love for power -- oh, such a dramatic phrase, Margo. You know me better than that. Even now."  
  
His stick clicked against something -- the wood of a chair, or perhaps the leg of a bed. Yes; he could feel the bedpost, if he reached out.  
  
"Edvard said he came for you first. No doubt he did a thorough job, if so. But I think he lied."  
  
Yes, now he was sure there was movement, somewhere in the room.   
  
"When he said that, I nearly broke his neck with my bare hands."  
  
"You should have."  
  
Relief flooded through him. "Margo -- "  
  
"Do not speak to me, Havelock Vetinari," came the voice. Two yellow pinpricks of light glowed, far off and slightly to his left. "How long had you known? Since I arrived? Since before? You invited me into your confidences, into your -- "  
  
"I invited you? Only to my city."  
  
"You vere vaiting even then?"  
  
"Not so."  
  
"Vhen, then?"  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
"It does to me."  
  
"Since a little before our dinner together. I knew I was going to be robbed. Whether it was you or someone else."  
  
"You believed it vos me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I vos a fool."  
  
"Not so very much." The glowing yellow eyes hadn't moved. "Let us have some light, Margolotta."  
  
"I prefer zer darkness."  
  
"We certainly pick our times, don't we?" he asked. "Easier to fight than to say goodbye, eh?"  
  
"I vos not zer von who picked zer fight last time. Nor did I lie zis time."  
  
"Do you expect me to feel guilty that I lied to help you? Is not embarrassment better than death at the hands of a clever young man?"  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
"Margolotta?"  
  
A candle flared to life.   
  
Two yellow pinpricks of light, far off and slightly to his left, turned out to be a cat sitting on a far window ledge.  
  
Margolotta stood about three inches in front of him.  
  
"Zere is a first time for everyzing," she said sadly.  
  
She was wearing pajamas, with a bunny on the pocket. It had fangs, and red eyes, and a little cape.  
  
"Do you know something strange, Margolotta?" he asked.  
  
"I know many strange things," she replied.  
  
"I believe I do love you." He gave her a small smile. "I certainly hope I should not lose my temper, risk my life, and beat a man nearly to death for anything less. As you say. A first time for everything." And then, in Uberwaldean: "Forgive."  
  
She nodded. "Zat vos all I vos vaiting for," she said.   
  
A leaden pause.  
  
"Zhraoi."  
  
/I forgive./  
  
*** 


	9. The Second Parable

Well...here it is :) Thanks to everyone who's read and commented, I hope you have all enjoyed the trip.   
  
I'm going to go have a lie down.   
  
THE PATRICIAN'S PAPERS  
  
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand  
  
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...  
  
Would she not have the advantage, after all?  
  
This music is successful, with a "dying fall"  
  
Now that we talk of dying --  
  
And should I have the right to smile?  
  
--TS Eliot  
  
CHAPTER NINE: THE SECOND PARABLE  
  
Editor's Note: This final chapter comes out of a much longer one, but obvious edits and margin notations have indicated that the Patrician, a man who knew the value of words, wished only this part to be made public. His other, more private musings, at his own request, have been given into the care of a colleague for safekeeping.   
  
***  
  
It is as with all things that men understand stories better than they do plain speech; is it not strange? A symbol is instinctively comprehended, while a plain fact is often thrust aside as being "untrue", either because the witness does not, or cannot, bear to face its truth. It was wise to begin with a parable; it was the instinct of a child, a most natural instinct.   
  
In the city of Ankh-Morpork there was a Man who took to traveling, so that he might see the world and the wonders that were in it. Of all the art and culture to be offered outside of his beloved city, there was only one place he was sorry to leave. He did not dwell upon it, as the years passed, but it was never very far from his thoughts.   
  
Power was the Man's for the taking, but he did not want power; riches were offered, but he did not want riches. He took control, whether it was for the taking or not, but control was not what he sought.   
  
The Man loved the city more than any other thing. So he sought to make it a city worthy of the love that every man must feel for the place he was born.   
  
He was very good at it.  
  
He learned his lessons quickly and well, and survived and thrived upon change, but never uproar -- good, orderly, progressional change, the acceptance of ideas whose time has come.   
  
Men who would rule, know this: there is no tide against which one can stand with impunity. Every battle takes its toll, and some will pull the sand from beneath your feet. Choose the ones worth fighting, or you find yourself drenched to the bone.   
  
First the city, then the people, then one's servants, then oneself.   
  
It is the only sensible way to live.  
  
But the man forgot, as time went on, that all four must be served. The self, lastly, yes; but serve it all the same, otherwise it is not life, but merely existence.   
  
That is all the knowledge that I have to give. If the reader has learned all he could, the world is a better place. If the reader has learned nothing, at least take this advice:  
  
Be kind to dogs.  
  
And the world will still be a better place.  
  
***  
  
Vetinari was already sitting at his little table in the corner room, writing, when Drumknott brought up his dinner, and a few late letters. It was soup night; on a little plate, next to the clear broth and the correspondence, were a few buttery, iced pastries, because Cook was an eternal optimist.  
  
The Patrician ate as he wrote, spilling not a drop of ink or soup. The past four months had been busy ones; Drumknott knew that his master was planning something out of the ordinary, but he hadn't seen enough of any one part of the plan to discover just what. If it had been anyone other than Vetinari, he might have thought war, but he knew that the Patrician was very much against war; it was simply too expensive to be practical.   
  
One never really mastered how to read Vetinari. Even Sir Samuel, who seemed to understand the man, was just as much in the dark as Drumknott. But it was obvious, since the Zhalien scandal had broken, that Vetinari was...different. He didn't actually smile more, but he seemed to have an especial zeal for his duties. It was as though, for years, he'd been doing them because someone had to; now he was doing them because it was...  
  
Drumknott's mind rebelled at the thought of "Havelock Vetinari" and "fun" in the same sentence.   
  
He was simply grateful that the Lady Margolotta's stay in Ankh-Morpork had been mercifully brief. He could adjust himself to many things, but he did not think he would ever have adapted to serving her breakfast in bed. Especially Vetinari's bed.  
  
Headache, indeed.  
  
His Lordship seemed to spend a lot more time on correspondences, too. Odd, that, what with the clacks going further and faster every day.  
  
Vetinari handed him a stack of papers, absently eating with his other hand, and dismissed him. Drumknott smiled.  
  
Yes. Good to be back to normal.  
  
***  
  
My dear Havelock,  
  
I did not think, at the time, that you could possibly be right. For that you must have some tolerance; I am a woman long used to the idea that romance is something held at close quarters. But you know this.  
  
Perhaps for us it is more than romance. If you had tried to teach me, when you were nineteen, that an affair of the mind could satisfy more than affairs of a more physical nature, I should not have respected your intellect in the slightest. You must, at the moment, have rather little respect for mine. To write to you is the most satisfying hour of my week, and to read your letters almost as good. I do not feel I miss anything; there is pragmatism and poetry to be had, and what more could either of us desire?  
  
You protest that love is a weakness, and as such must be defended. I disagree. I think it is your strength. For me you lied and fought; your life would be far less exciting without me in it, is that not true? In Uberwald, where one stands a good chance of being staked even now, my life was rather more dull when I did not have your letters to look forward to.   
  
Now, as to our discussions of politics. Do you believe that to foster an existing system of governance is always correct? Granted that the system is functional on a majority level, but if it is an oppression to some measure of the population --  
  
There was a rap at the window.   
  
Vetinari looked up from the letter he was reading. Smiled. Stood up, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, five stories in the air.  
  
"I thought you didn't do this sort of thing anymore," he said.  
  
Margolotta, on the other side, shrugged. "For old times' sake," she said, slightly muffled by the glass.  
  
"The letters were not enough?"  
  
"They vere enough. But I do so love a holiday."  
  
"I am planning a holiday."  
  
"You are not."  
  
"I am indeed. In a year's time, I will take a short diplomatic trip to visit the Low King."  
  
"Ah, I see she has seduced you."  
  
"Very amusing, Margolotta. I wonder, should I let you in?"  
  
"I vish you vould, it's rather cold out."  
  
He flicked a latch on the window, and pulled it inward. Margolotta stepped gracefully out of the air, and into the little room.  
  
"Wait," he said, putting a hand up before she could move too close. He walked swiftly into the main entrance-room of his chambers, and pulled a bolt across the door. Drumknott, if he found a locked door, would know better -- this time, at any rate -- than to go any further.  
  
Margolotta had shut the window, and was trying one of the pastries, when he returned. She put it down and dusted off her fingers daintily. And smiled at him.   
  
"Now," the Patrician said, moving forward, "About your theories of governance..."  
  
END 


End file.
